Welcome to the Night
by sarramaks
Summary: Season 3 for those who cannot wait. Ethan returns from America.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

New Mexico

Sometimes it's what you don't see. It's the items that are hidden from view that are the most telling; ones hidden in cupboards or concealed under throws, behind pictures. Or even in rooms shied away from your casual visitor. It's those things that are most telling about the character of a person, the things they wish you not to know.

The good man and his wife standing in front of the house my father had built when I was a boy have no idea of the dark things that have happened in that place, and nor should they need to. For them, Prosperity is a new start. What has occurred within those four walls previously need never touch their lives although they may wonder what the faint scent that clings to the air inside might be.

Sage. White sage. Used to cleanse in so many religions; rids a person or a place of its sins. I am more familiar with the stuff than I wish to be.

After seven months I return to England. This time my journey there will not be one of flight as it was last time. Instead it will be one of hope, that the people I have left will still be there, well and alive. I am unsure of my welcome, for there are still sins for which I need to atone.

"Ethan."

I turn around to the copse behind me and see my old friend through the trees. Her face is a creased as a linen shirt after being slept in, brown weather-worn skin framing the white of her eyes.

"Ela," I say, backing into the trees so the new proprietor of my childhood home will not be disturbed. "I thought you had gone south for a few days?"

"I had," she says, looking up to the skies. "But the weather changed its mind and decided to keep the storms until after you have left, which makes it a good time to pick the roots and leaves."

I laugh. The old woman has never fooled me, even as a boy, but then she has never tried. "You weren't going to let me go quietly, were you?"

Ela smiles. "No, Ba'cho. But then you never went anywhere quietly." She is watching the birds in the trees rather than me. As much as she can't fool me, I cannot read her so I don't know whether her thoughts are about those birds or the events of the past few months. She is a wise woman, the tribe's eldest member as no one can recall when she was born, if she ever was. "You will remember this time what I have taught you?"

I take a seat on a fallen tree, the bark smooth having been used for that purpose by many others already. "I can't afford to forget."

"The herbs? Your Miss Ives will help you?"

"If she…" I stop and look away. Grab a blade of long grass to chew. I don't think of Vanessa often. I speak of her only to Ela, and that is out of necessity. But she resides in my dreams and in the chill that creeps rarely into the wind that I am sure is sent by her moors.

A bird of prey circles. Somewhere something has died. "She knows you are alive and yes, she is angry, but mainly at herself."

"She has no reason to be cross with herself."

"Neither have you. And if we need to have that conversation again you will need to delay your leaving." Ela sits down, the carved stick forever by her side. "The herbs and the amulet will help if you believe they will. You have done your atoning and can do no more of it. You have a purpose and the gift – for that is how you must look at it – will help you serve that purpose."

"This past week," I say, still watching the birds circling, "has been the first time I've had chance to consider what's happened. Everything. Miss Ives, my father, Thomas, Sembene. One moment I feel settled, as if a shard of light has crept through the darkness and then I remember what might be to come."

She's looking at me now. "What will be to come."

"I can't undo what's done."

"You can't ignore that part of you, Ba'cho."

"Even though it makes me into something I don't want to be?" A leaf drops to the ground, catching the slight muttering of a breeze on the way down.

"I do not understand why you are still ashamed. All of us have done things we regret. It is this regret that stops us from becoming evil. None of us are truly pure, not even the most reclusive of monks or pious of priests. Anyone who claims not to have this darkness is likely concealing it in my experience," Ela said. She stands up and taps me with the stick. "Come. You will eat with me tonight and we shall discuss things further."

I stand and follow her through the trees to what should have been a reservation, but in my absence my father had relaxed the restrictions and had lived with the Indians peacefully. We pass the marker of my brother's grave, where bare earth once was there is now grass, more than three years' growth.

"Ba'cho! Ba'cho!" I hear before I am bowled at by two of the boys, Ela's great grandsons. "We have new bows," one of them tells me.

"Afterwards," Ela says. "First you must help cook supper."

* * *

It is dusk by the time we have eaten and I have aimed at tree targets with the boys. The late summer sun has left the evening warm, but the wind from the moors still whispers. I have rolled a cigarette, a habit of Vanessa's I have chosen not to give up and watch the trees dance. Around me are the wooden houses of the tribe. The remains of fire's flicker and the air is scented with food. The darkening sky is tempered with deep oranges and reds; a painting for a rich man's sitting room.

"We leave at sunrise," Ela's grandson says. My childhood friend and the enemy of my father. Tak. He will ride with me to the port and we will bid farewell, just as we did three years before. "And next time you return don't bring the inspector."

He and Rusk did not like each other. There had been an element of distrust that had bordered on being humorous to all apart from the men concerned.

"He will bring a wife next time," Ela says from inside the home. "Maybe a child."

This makes me laugh. "I don't think that's what's in the cards," I say.

"You don't read them."

"Neither do you."

Ela appears, hands on hips and I remember my boyhood, being chased after stealing food from her, running through the forest barefoot and hearing only our laughter and her empty threats. I had grown up here, away from my father's discipline and my brother's golden halo. It was here I had learned of ways and customs other than my Catholic church and here that I saw different horizons to what my father had planned for me. "There are other ways to see someone's future, Mr Chandler," she says, coming outside and sitting down. "Before I take to my sleep let me give you some more advice."

"I'll add it to the volumes."

She tuts at me and Tak smiles. His wife is beside him now, his boys in bed. Nascha, he reminds me often, is alive because of me. I did what he couldn't; I saved his wife. He saw mine die. "There are people who see through the veil between worlds much more clearly than the rest of the world. You and I both know there is a thin divide."

I remember chanting, voices, hallucinations and speech coming from things that should never have spoken. I remember arrows flying across a full moon and a uniform that I had been forced into. I looked at Tak and saw his grandmother's power flicker quietly in his eyes. "Always."

"Beware the dead, Ethan. Beware those who should be in the ground."

* * *

A/N I haven't written fan fiction in a few years and I should be writing something else as I have a book due with an editor in just over a month, but having binge watched both seasons the characters just wouldn't leave me alone and it was a wonderful chance to try a few things out.

The next chapter will be likely published tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N There's some cussing below, but no worse than you'd get on the show. Enjoy. Than you for the reviews for chapter one. The whole Ethan having been married is down to a clip I saw on the PD youtube channel where it shows two seconds from every day they were filming; there was a close up of Ethan in a frame with a bride and he looked like the groom...

Chapter 2

My ass is still sore from the ride across half the states to the port and my ribs ache from both a brawl in a bar and laughter, of which there was much. The full moon has passed so the other passengers on the boat have no reason to fear me and I have the luxury of a few days with only those that take the half life to look out for, and thankfully they are far and few between.

The crossing will be around a week if the weather is good to us. I feel worry starting to rise about how I will be received back in London, by more than just Miss Ives. Her appearances in my dreams have increased since leaving my childhood home; now it seems that she is in every one in many guises, and I wake frequently imagining that she is next to me or nearby, in danger or in anger and sometimes in love. Tak woke me one night during the journey to the port, trying to stop me from shouting her name, but he would not tell me what else I said. The expression on his face suggested it would only cause me pain to know.

I can see the ocean all around us, as if we are sailing through a sapphire. This passage is already much more pleasant than the journey with Rusk, the lack of a cage and chains an immediate improvement. Ela was correct in her words, some atonement is already done so the lightness can be viewed without fear.

Rusk is already back in London, probably content with himself and satisfied now he had seen at first hand the demon he had been seeking. He handed me over to my father at the port, not expecting the brush off he was given, not expecting a man like my father. I don't recall much else; my thoughts had turned inwards, filled only with Sembene's blood and thoughts of Vanessa without me. At what I had become and the terror that I was lost to it, without even death to look forward to. I recalled in a moment of clarity Vanessa begging me to take her life, to give her that release and my refusal. She called me cruel at one point and that first night travelling across the states to New Mexico I understood why.

We returned to the house where I was brought up after my mother died and I was left alone in a secured room. I didn't care. Whichever fucking god was on duty had abandoned me and I had no reason to keep hold of my sanity. There was a freedom in giving in to the madness, of letting myself sink underneath that wilder ocean than the one I sail across now.

And then the full moon arrived in its timely manner and I changed. Locks on doors were not strong enough to keep me prisoner and I broke free, watched by my father and his man, Rusk in attendance and I fled to my brother's grave, which was where Ela found me the following morning, as if she knew I'd be there. There was no hunger to sate or words to say. Not at that point. She read the hatred for myself in my eyes and never tried to persuade me from it.

According to the captain, the ship is making good time and our journey should take us no more than eight days in total. We've been at sea for one already so there's just a week until I'm on English soil. The captain's pleased as his wife has just had a little girl and he's anxious to be home to see how she's grown. I smile, say something appropriate and he invites me to eat with him this evening. I thank him, all the time looking behind his shoulder to check that there is no curly haired woman standing there, just one of the demons I'm unable to run from.

My father had me extradited, not needing the controversy that either my hanging or imprisonment would cause. He had become a political man; in the time since I'd seen him had developed his contacts in Washington and although didn't wish to become president, he had a desire to gain more power that way, now he had no sons left. I'd never been what he wished; I was the opposite of Thomas, my brother. I learned easily, quickly but would rather be out shooting or riding. Thomas lingered over his lessons and would try to engage father in intellectual conversations, failing miserably but increasing my father's power over us both. I ran wild, wanting to impress him in my own way and it was then I found the reservation and Tak.

I still remember that almost carefree part of my childhood. Running barefoot across the fields, climbing trees and fashioning our own bows and arrows. And then there was the magic; the superstition and rituals that dominated Tak's tribe. Not everyone was good. Not everyone tried to be good.

At first, father ignored our friendship, but when I became vocal about the treatment the Indians were receiving he stopped me from walking through the woods, or going anywhere and I was sent away to school. I didn't last there. It was too easy to escape so time and time again I was picked up by father's men and taken back to school or to home, to face the wrath of daddy who had been burying himself in whisky and whores.

I was beaten to within an inch of my life and saw the sadism in every nightmare since. Giving in to what he required was the only option and I learned to keep my mouth shut when he was around, say my prayers and do as I was asked. I married his business partner's daughter when I was eighteen, a sweet girl called Laura, who I wasn't in love with, but it meant I no longer lived under the same roof as my devil of a father. Laura was older than me and had a simplicity younger than her years. She was beautiful in a way that men noticed, a beauty made all the more when she failed to pick up on their flirtations and comments. In a bar one evening I heard the local white men discussing her, what they would do to her or let their sons do, how they would teach her. I felt the rage burn deep within my belly and a fire thunder through me. I ended up in a police cell that night, my brother dragging me home the following morning, chiding me in a way worse than my father.

"You were upset by what they were saying about her?" my father said. "Upset?" he spat the words.

"And you aren't? The daughter of your friend to be spoken about in such a way?" It once would've pained me to speak back, but by this time I was braver, more stupid maybe.

"She's just a quim without a thought in her head. She'll be good for two things…"

He didn't continue, just shuffled papers and looked at me in a way that suggested I was good for nothing.

"She's going to get hurt."

"You're not some white knight, Ethan. Unless you want her for a wife I suggest you learn that not everyone can be protected."

"Fine. I'll marry her." The words were out before I had thought about them. I was eighteen. I'd had girls before, discretely away from my father's ears and eyes, and I'd found I enjoyed their company. But there had been nobody serious, an older girl maybe, Charlotte or Lottie as she was known. But I was merely her plaything for a few months before she left me with an almost broken heart.

My father looked up and pushed his papers to one side. "That could suit us both. If she'll take you I'll have it arranged."

That night as I walked back from stabling the horses a group of men set upon me, leaving me for the night bloodied and bruised in the bushes. I had known who they were: my father's men. I was too tall and too broad for him to take his fists to himself, but he could live vicariously through men from the shadows.

I didn't go home until the bruises had cleared, instead making my way to the reservation and Ela's healing tinctures. By the time I returned my wedding was planned. Laura had always liked me and for her a wedding was the chance to dress up and look pretty, which she did. My father took great pleasure in arranging the wedding night, understanding full well that I would never force Laura to do something she couldn't understand.

Rusk never saw that side to the old man he met. The three years had not been kind. There was a weakness down his left side and his voice was sometimes slurred, no longer by alcohol. The house had been emptied of ornaments, as if someone had taken away the woman's touch and I wondered if my father had given up fucking his regular prostitutes. I didn't ask. Even when I returned after the full moon, after I had spent three weeks in Ela's house, lying by a constant fire, listening to her chants and incantations while Tak watched with his cat-like stare.

"Your father loves you," Ela said, when I was cognizant enough to understand.

"No," I replied. "He loved the idea of me. Not who I was, who I am now. And especially not after I killed Thomas." I was sitting up by this point, sipping at a potion Tak had made that tasted of bitter wood with added honey.

"He knows that you saved us," Ela said, an old book in front of her, written in a language I couldn't understand.

I looked away. She knew of the atrocities I'd committed.

After I married Laura I joined the army, my last attempt at freedom away from my father. He wasn't pleased, but Thomas was demanding more of his time as he struggled with father's business deals and his own vices, namely younger girls who weren't that interested. And Laura, his brother's wife.

I killed my first man on Thomas' birthday in a massacre of a tribe of Apaches. It wasn't an Apache, but an American by the name of Tobias Youngman. I found him about to rape one of their women so shot him in the head and told the woman to run. Lying had always come easy so I confessed to missing a shot, then killed an Apache outright to prove my loyalty.

The third kill I don't remember. They all blur into one eventually.

* * *

Around my neck I wear two tokens on a chain. One is of St Jude, patron saint of lost causes, given to me by Brona. The other is a piece of silver with an etching on, made by Ela and Tak, with a symbol I don't understand. I touch them frequently, reminding myself that I have survived extradition and my father, the only thing that has damaged my soul is myself.

Ela talked to me about walking the line between light and dark and how easy it is to step into the shadows but to keep sight of the light, even if it's in the distance. Even before I became what I am, I walked in those shadows and was proud of it even. Now am I no longer proud for I have nothing left to prove.

On the journey from England I would've gladly cast myself into the ocean, the rope having been denied me, but Rusk's cage prevented such a final act. Now the waves that surround the ship no longer call; instead I urge them to draw me closer to England so that I can use this lingering darkness to cushion anothers'.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N Thank you for reading the previous chapter. If you have the time, do leave a review however brief. It does help with the motivation to write quickly!

Chapter 3

Lyle woke abruptly and immediately sat up, his heart pounding as if he'd been doing something strenuous. There was clearly no immediate danger. No one lay next to him, for his wife had her own boudoir in her own quarters; the window was closed; the door bolted and there was no thing entering or leaving the room through a wall.

He lay back down, now wide-awake and as perturbed as he was on a daily basis when his mind cast itself a half year or so back to the events at Madame Poole's and shuddered. He thought of it regularly, more than he wanted to.

There had been nothing of any significance until a fortnight ago when an odd dream had woken him. He'd heard Hecate's voice in the background, saying something he couldn't quite understand, maybe because it was in a different language. Even when his eyes were open he'd still heard the words, but had put it down to too much gin the night before. Then he'd had the dream again, even when he had gone to bed sober.

Lyle sat up again, pulling on his robe and making a decision to perform his morning ablutions and take a carriage over to Sir Malcolm's to see if anyone had yet returned. This would be the tenth day he had carried out such a mission, the tenth day of fretting over things that were probably a result of a party he had been to where absinthe was served a little too liberally.

But that didn't tally with Miss Ives and the charming Mr Chandler and the things that had gone which he could explain but left him trembling, and not with excitement, which was rather unfortunate. He had always thought that Mr Chandler and excitement should've gone hand in hand.

It was just after four when he left, an ungodly hour but he wasn't sure in for which god that would be true. There were already people up and around, or maybe those who hadn't gone to bed at all from the night before. He remembered those days with affection and sometimes embarrassment, depending on which part was being recalled.

A knockerupper rapped on the windows of the mill workers; a woman cussed from her open casement and a bowl of something was tipped from another. Lyle kept his chin up and walked on. There was little he hadn't seen, or so he thought, given the decadent life he'd had, with a wife whose own proclivities had lain elsewhere, he'd been able to explore more of the tribe into which he'd be born and the darker side of humanity to which the door had been opened.

Sir Malcolm's house was as Lyle had seen it two days ago. Dark. Lyle felt his shoulders sag and his chin drop, eyes to the cobbles. He had wondered whether it was the company he missed, the being useful within a field he'd enjoyed. Now he was a curator again, with a wife and a society that was gloriously showable but nowhere near as exciting as some of it had been. Sir Malcolm was still in Africa, it seemed, in Senegal maybe, where Sembene had come from. Miss Ives had left shortly after and he'd assumed the American had gone with her.

That left the doctor, whose rationality would be a good thing. Maybe something could be prescribed so he could relax a little more, realise that the evil that had plagued them had now gone.

But even he knew that wasn't true.

Lyle stopped a carriage and gave directions to the tenement block where he knew the doctor to live. It wasn't the sort of area he was too keen on, but he tried not to judge as he paid the driver and stared at the building. A short woman, rather fat, passed by.

"You lost, sir?" she said, stopping.

Lyle appraised her, looking for any resemblance of Hecate Poole. "Looking for a friend."

"He live round here, does he?"

"Yes. Doctor Frankenstein. You might know of him…" he was about to describe him when the woman cut him short.

"Strange bloke, red eyed most of the time. Had a woman staying with him for a bit but not seem either of 'em for weeks but then he always did keep strange hours. He's third one across in the bottom one," she had already started to walk away as she said the final word.

The door to Frankenstein's home wasn't locked, which was both bad and good. There was a chance he might be in, or something else might be there instead, which was worrying. "Victor?" Lyle called. "Doctor Frankenstein?"

He realised he'd been holding his breath due to the smell. An odour of things rotting manifested itself through Lyle's nasal cavities and he tried to breathe through his mouth as he wandered passed the tables and medical equipment he had no wish to be familiar with.

Victor Frankenstein lay on his side in a shirt that couldn't be given to a tramp and a pair of trousers that would never be worn again. Lyle knelt down next to him and checked for a pulse, preferably one that did not have vomit nearby. Lyle had known many people who used morphine regularly. He had been around them, known some users intimately and made no judgement. His particular poison was gin, amongst other things.

"Doctor," he said, gently shaking the man's shoulder. "Victor. It's Ferdinand. Ferdinand Lyle." The man was alive but nowhere near conscious. Lyle sighed and stepped back, viewing his surroundings. In Frankenstein's position he'd take on more morphine too if he woke up to this mess. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and decided to make himself useful. At least he could do this.

By the time Victor had opened his eyes the room was sanitised and the smell of stale vomit had diminished. Lyle was sitting on a chair, perusing a Penny Dreadful that he assumed had belonged to Frankenstein's companion. He had already read the paper from three weeks ago and had nipped out to buy today's early news from a small boy who looked as if he hadn't had a meal in weeks.

There was a groan before the eyes closed again and Lyle debated the water treatment but decided the smell of eggs and bacon being cooked would be preferable.

As the bacon sizzled he heard Frankenstein move, groan and speak. "Lily?"

"It's Lyle."

Frankenstein sat up, eyes red, face thin. "You're not Lily?" Pause. "You're Lyle. What the fuck are you doing in my house?"

"Checking you're not dead. Bringing you back to life. You choose." He wasn't offended. He'd heard worse from people who had just woken up.

"You should let me die."

Lyle sat down, watching Frankenstein writhe on the floor. The after affects of morphine were not the most pleasant. They made the night after a gin party seem positively paradise.

"Then there would have been no point in cleaning your abode."

Frankenstein looked about the rooms. "Lily wasn't here?"

"No. It seemed that no one apart from yourself had been here for a few weeks. You should eat. I've seen more meat on a rabid dog. Then wash and I'll incinerate your clothes."

"Why are you here?"

Lyle passed a plate of food over. He had no doubt that it would be vomited up but one could hope. "I appear to be suffering from the side effects of our adventures earlier in the year."

"Which are what?"

"Dreams. I keep having dreams. Specifically about Hecate Poole who I sadly don't think died in the fire."

"Dreams." Frankenstein played with his food. "I'm not the sort of doctor you want for that."

"It's not necessarily a doctor I want, my dear. More someone whom I can speak to about it without being sent to an asylum. And maybe prescribe a little something that will stop me from waking up in a cold sweat every night."

"Is Sir Malcolm back?"

"I fear not."

"Miss Ives?"

"Neither she nor Mr Chandler can be found." Lyle tapped his foot impatiently.

Frankenstein finished the food, saying nothing more. He managed to stand then staggered off. Lyle heard the sound of water, cursing and then retching. He grimaced and tried to read the paper, his attention draw to a short article on the sixth page. Two men had been murdered after leaving a gentlemen's club in the early hours of the morning, both were gentry, sons of members of parliament and otherwise immune to the law.

"Right, Professor Lyle. I think for my own sanity we should leave this place as I could do with some fresh air." Lyle turned around to where Frankenstein stood, his appearance still sick looking but his attire much cleaner.

"If you don't mind me saying, my dear, I think you should refrain from indulging in the opiates for a time. Maybe try gin instead." Lyle stood, leaving the paper to the floor. "Do you need to take anything with you?"

There was a shake of the head. "No. I think it best I leave my needles here. You have a point. I rather wish they didn't. Where do you think we should best go?"

Lyle had considered this. His own house was big enough to let Victor live there without ever seeing him, but that posed its own implications. There was one place where seemed the most logical. "Sir Malcolm's. If we can get in."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N Possibly a little unusual. Lots of ways Sir Malcolm's visit to Africa could develop and keep him away for longer. Your comments would be most appreciated.

Chapter 4

 _As virtuous men pass mildly away, and whisper to their souls to go, whilst some of their sad friends do say, the breath goes now, and some say no._

\- _John Donne_

It is during a storm that he sees her; chained to a metal post. There is no one around for the storm is brutal, like the country has been so far.

She is scarred. White gashes interfere with the blackness of her skin and her hair has been shorn recently and without care. She is crying, tears mingle with the sharp shards of rain and although he is being battered with the same force he stops to look at her, to stare.

Her eyes are on him. He can see large brown pools watching him as he is standing there, wondering why the hell he is outside on a night like this but it is not her wonderment that is voice.

"Si vous voyez mon maître, le tuer."

Her voice is brittle. There is something dead in. "I don't know who your master is. So if I see him, I can't kill him." Malcolm isn't sure about slavery any more. He isn't sure about a lot of things since.

She understands English, turning her head to one side as he approaches, curious. A slave master would only leave one of his outside in weather like this if he wanted rid.

"Sembene." She tries to stand up but the chains restrict her. "You knew Sembene."

Now he recognises her. With hair and without the marks he recognised her from Tuli, Sembene's village. "Yes," he says. "So did you."

"Then, if you see my master kill him. For me. For Sembene."

Malcolm shouts for the rain has become harder. "Where is he?"

"There." She nods across the water to an inn, not one Malcolm wishes to custom as it is known for trouble.

"I won't kill him," he says. "But I will pay him."

Malcolm returns an hour later, a little poorer but bearing keys. The rain is ceasing for it is all cried out and he finds his new acquisition with her head against the post, eyes closed, asleep. He unlocks the chains, waking her and she stumbles upwards, leaning onto his arms.

"What is your name?"

"Ebele," she says. "It means kindness."

He half carries her to the place he is staying. The storm has ceased and tomorrow he will need to move on, if he can. He hasn't planned for an extra passenger. No one looks as he walks through the lounge half carrying Ebele or asks him any questions as he takes her upstairs to his room. He has paid them enough to ask no questions.

As soon as he places her on the bed she is asleep, still soaking from the rain. Kindness rather than voyeurism motivates him to strip the cloth she is wearing and he covers her with a blanket, throwing the clothes away. They are sodden and filthy. She smells raw, or blood and of muck and her body is branded, beaten. He lies on the sofa and closes his eyes, listening to the breath of another as if it is a lullaby.

In the morning she is awake before him, a sheet wrapped around her. He sees her dark eyes as he wakes, hears her silence. 'Good morning," he says.

Ebele nods. "It is morning. I don't know yet if it is good."

Malcolm sits up. "You are free to go. I can take you to a place that is safer for you, where you won't be captured."

"Take me to England," she says. "I will work for you until I have repaid you what you have spent to free me."

Malcolm is surprised. He thought she would ask him to take her to her village, or a halfway point so she could get there somehow. He isn't sure how he feels. He came to Africa to bury Sembene, not to find his replacement. "I don't know. I don't need workers at present."

She stands, eyes ablaze. "Sembene sold me years ago and I returned. I was in the village when he saved you. Senegal is a small country and my people are a small group, Malcolm Murray. You may not need a worker but you will need my skills."

Malcolm is afraid. Since being in Africa, even with all of its tribalism and rituals, he has felt safe returning Sembene's body to the place where he was born, sleeping under the stars with the animals around. But now his head is back in London, the fear reminiscent of that which he felt in Evelyn Poole's home. "How do you know this?"

"There is a market near the inn from where you met the slave master. I like the colour orange best; I find its resemblance to the sun a comfort. I don't know everything, Malcolm, only some, only that I can help."

He leaves everything with her except his money and goes to the market, returning with clothes and half expecting her to be gone. But she isn't. She is washed, clean, swaddled in a sheet. She smiles at what he has brought and disappears to change, saying nothing.

Outside the area bustles. Traders are stomping their ground, selling other men and women. There is an atmosphere of violence and unrest and Malcolm wants to leave. There is a ship that afternoon, sailing to Liverpool. It is a goods vessel and the crossing will likely be rough. He had planned to stay longer, to see if exploring would rejuvenate him after all that had happened, but for the first time that he had been on this great continent he wished for home. Ebele returns, dressed. She is Africa, with all its darkness and mystique.

"You chose well," she says. There is no fear in her voice, she speaks as an equal, more so than Sembene.

"Who are you?"

"I told you. Ebele."

"That is just a name."

Her eyes dance and then he sees her arms, the dark insides etched with markings, symbols. Juju's. He has seen them before, usually amulets worn to protect but as a slave jewellery was forbidden.

"How old are you?"

"Ageless." She is smiling. He is becoming cross.

"How old?"

"I think I was born forty summers ago. I have no children. I have not been married. The rest of my tribe are dead or gone. I have the ways of my people and my own soul."

He paces to the door, unsure if she still owns that soul or if it has been exchanged. He can take no risks. "I travel back to England today. I cannot take you back."

"You don't trust me?"

He looks at her, sadness brimming in his eyes. "I don't know who to trust?"

"Then let me return with you and show you."


	5. Chapter 5

A/N Thank for the reviews and for reading! Apologies for typos.

Chapter 5

 _Be your own palace, or the world is your jail._

 _-John Donne_

The wind blew cold even though it was still summer, grasses dancing insanely across the moors. Some days I sat and watched the scene for hours, under the same grey sky with the same grey clouds. I didn't miss London and its society, not after everyone had left, or nearly everyone.

The moors are far greater than Sir Malcolm's house, yet the house was too large for me to rattle around in on my own. He left thinking Mr Chandler would be there, but I knew better. The cut wife's cottage was a better place for me, away from the demons London hid on every street, in its tourist attractions and inns, even in its churches.

Joan Clayton had left me her house and its contents. Although I sought solitude I also needed the wisdom her life could provide as instead of running and hiding from whatever was within me – I still hadn't named it – I would command it. Then it would be my decision as to what I used it for, this power. I would no longer be a 'little girl' who blindly struck out during a tantrum but a victor in whichever battle came next. My soul would remain my own. Not the devil's, nor god's.

News that the cottage was occupied once more travelled to Ballantrae fast and I inherited Joan's title of the cut-wife, maybe with a little more sympathy. I didn't need their payment, although some of the girls and women still brought it, and I didn't offer advice. Who was I to reprimand them of their ways? Other folk came too, needing tinctures and potions, medicines. I served a purpose for selfish reasons, it kept me busy and from thinking about the very feeling I had described to Mr Grey almost cruelly: rejection.

After the first time I cut alone I smoked the cannabis I had brought with me from London, tampered with a plant I had used before for others. A sleep aid, something to keep away the dreams. But mixed, as Joan's books told me, opened your mind to hear the voices that might otherwise go unheard. There were voices I didn't want to hear: Evelyn Poole, Geoffrey Hawkes, my own mother.

But then there was Joan's.

I wondered after if I had gone mad. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling but when I saw her, standing by the pot on the stove, adding more salt to a stew, I did question whether I was suffering from solitude.

 _"You did it right, girl,"_ she said. " _It was a clean cut. What the girl didn't tell was how she got that way – her own father. Read the red book and see what it tells you about Culver's Root. It'll be useful for a man who's coming to see you. Now, why've you not been reading the cards?"_

The good doctor would no doubt call it a hallucination that was telling me information I already knew. Sir Malcolm would question it as being a woman's affliction. I questioned myself but read about Culver's Root and found it on the moors, taking its stem and its flowers for the house.

The fire had done little damage to the building, except charring of some of the beams, but they were strong. Of the evenings I would sit by the fire, needed even in summer, and read the books the house held, avoiding the couch where Mr Chandler had slept although some evenings my senses were overwhelmed with his scent of sweat and wood and fields afar from the moors.

Two weeks after Joan's visit the man she had predicted arrived on horseback. He was dressed as gentry, fair haired and handsome and he greeted me well, although my hair was that of a wild woman and my attire without corset or décor.

"Good afternoon," he said, offering me a hand. "I have moved into Sir Geoffrey's estate…"

I blanched at the name.

He noticed and gave a slight smile, not self assured or confident, just warm. "I know there was a history between this place and Sir Geoffrey – I haven't come to resurrect it and I have no desire to see you leave your property Miss…"

"Ives."

"Miss Ives. I was told by one of the villagers you may be able to help. I have a footman whose stomach is not good…" I left him on the doorstep while I listened to him describe the symptoms.

"A tincture," I said. "One that will help clear the liver. He should refrain from alcohol while taking it. You can wait or come back tomorrow."

He looked nervous. "I will wait."

I closed the door and prepared the ingredients, using the Culver's Root and wondering why a man of his status was running errands for his servants. He was still there when I went outside, hands in pockets. I handed him the bottle.

"It's good of you to help your footman," I said. The sky was darker, it was about to rain. I could smell the moors, the damp earthy scent that felt like home.

"In truth, Miss Ives I was curious about you. It also holds me in favour with the workers and I need them onside," he said, looking at the bottle and the instructions that I had written down.

"I must owe you something."

"No. I do not need anything in return."

He looked disappointed. "Then may I bring you a gift? A cut of meat or eggs from my hens?"

I felt my heart wrench, as if someone was tugging it out of my chest. 'That would be kind if you are passing, but I mean what I say. I do not need payment." I glanced at the sky. "You should go unless you wish to get wet. I hope your curiosity is satisfied."

His skin shone with embarrassment but he didn't look away. "The rain doesn't bother me. I shall see you again." He nodded and walked away to his horse.

I didn't watch him go. By the time he would've been saddled up I had laid out the cards and begun to read them.

I'd avoided reading the cards since leaving Sir Malcolm's, knowing full well that the temptation would be to look for Mr Chandler and that would not have been conducive to the mental escape that was required. But the blonde haired man had disturbed me. He reminded me of Mr Gray, a man who would luxuriate in pleasure, but without Dorian's excessiveness. I felt guilt for having found him attractive and considered who he actually was.

Ethan's letter to me had acted as a suicide note, although I knew he wasn't dead. For the few days after I had studied the newspapers and listened to the town criers but his name was never mentioned. For whatever crimes he had confessed to, he had not been hung. But I did not know his fate.

I spread the cards as Joan had taught me and considered my subject, feeling my eyes well with the tears I had refused to shed. I had refused the fallen angel's offer of my heart's desire, hoping that my god would somehow allow me some light. But instead it was all torn away, leaving a gaping wound.

So I walked alone.

Ethan was still alive, the cards had whispered. Very much alive but overseas. In my mind's eye I saw a wolf with the moon above, trees surrounding him and a mound that grass grew over. There were words I could not decipher, only the sound of laughter. My tears dropped onto the next card, The Lovers, reversed. _The ending of a relationship or a barrier within one,_ I heard my own voice recite the meaning to Joan and then I let the tears fall.

My visitor returned with smoked meats and eggs as he had promised and we promenaded across the moors. I didn't collect the berries and roots as I had done with Mr Chandler as that felt a betrayal, even though I had always prided myself on not being sentimental.

He was called William, like the poet, his surname Donne, and I asked if he was a man of poetry, remembering Mr Clare on whatever shore he had travelled to. He told me know and talked of farming, of land and animals and a house that was too big for him. He was Sir Geoffrey's cousin and a likeable man, steady and honest, it seemed with no desire for power or to have any more than he could deal with.

I began to take care of my appearance again, should Mr Donne call, and spent a little more time in the village. I still read Joan's books and tried out her ways, following the notes she had left in the margins of her tombs, but I avoided the book with the glyph. Here, on Ballantrae Moor, I could forget about some of the darkness outside and concentrate on the line I would have to learn to walk, between the light and the dark.

It was after a walk with Mr Donne to see the horses in a field that had been recently tended that I sat down to smoke. I was restless, something was stopping me from settling and I couldn't understand exactly what.

I inhaled deeply, letting the drug take effect. Muscles and sinews began to relax and I settled into the chair, only moving when I saw Joan sitting on the couch that I hadn't touched in all the time I'd been there.

" _You never know where he'll be hiding,"_ she said, wearing the dress made from hemp. " _It's not necessarily in the person, girl, but in what is promised."_

"What do you mean?" I asked, leaning forward. "You mean Mr Donne."

 _"He's a temptation. And where might this temptation take you? Think ahead. You stay here, as I asked you to. You serve the women and girls of Ballentrae Moor well, my little scorpion, as I asked of you and you have no Mina to find now. Why not have this almost normal life?"_

I scraped the chair back against the floor, away from the vision of her. "You're him, aren't you?" The words I knew too well sat on my tongue,

The apparition shook her head. _"No, I'm still the cut-wife of Ballentrae Moor although that doesn't matter. I was wrong to ask you to stay and you shouldn't stay now. You'll be needed elsewhere soon, girl, just don't be tempted by what's on offer here."_

"Did you ever have a lover?"

 _"Of course. I wasn't always as old as I was."_

The room fell silent. I stood, stepping over to where she had been and caught sight of a piece of metal or silver, an etching inscribed upon it whose pattern I had never seen before. It burned in my hand, containing a power I wasn't sure of. "Ostende te," I said quietly. It still burned, but a now an aura of light misted around it for seconds before quietening and the growing cold.

I slept with it in my hand, that night, although it didn't stop the dreams. Throughout the night I saw images of the people I knew, sometimes laughing, sometimes in pain or torment and then I saw myself on the moors, dressed differently, oblivious to my friends' lives and I understood what the cut-wife had meant.

The devil could never take my soul, but he could allow me to abandon it.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

It is Rusk who meets me at Southampton after an uneventful voyage, one without storms or treachery. He is standing with his usual demeanour; the empty sleeve in his pocket, back upright and the curious smile set on his face. He knows what I am, yet showed no fear, the first thing he said to me when I returned to my father's house was that he now understood. He asked no questions nor made any further comment, spending time walking and with the local police.

It was made clear to me that should I return to England there would be no further charges. I would be a free man, able to pursue my interests as long as they did not include homicide. I didn't make the promise. Even though Ela had started to teach me how to take control of my skinwalker state it did not mean that I would not kill when completely human, if it meant protecting those I loved.

Rusk took time discussing other murders, London's unsolved, and asked my opinion on whether they contained a supernatural content. While we were in New Mexico he received word of a double murder, that of two of the gentry – or their sons at least – both suffocated, outside, with no witnesses. I had no suspicions so other than saying my hands were clean for this one I couldn't help him. I was not a detective.

"I have a carriage ready," he says, no other greeting. "Sir Malcolm is not yet returned from his travels in Africa, although his house looks occupied."

Vanessa. I am not usually a nervous man, but when I think of her and how I left my heart seems to expand and to want to suffocate me. "I would've been able to make my own way there. You must be busy."

He lets me into the carriage first, working one handed and I wonder if indeed he lost his arm on the operating table after a war. "Yes. Strange murders. We had the two in the waxworks, the Putneys. The woman had her neck snapped, the man was thrown against the wall repeatedly until he died. There was a witness of sorts, the daughter Lavinia but she is blind. She swears it was a man named John Clare who was working for them, but there are no records of his employ or that he even exists."

Rusk looks out of the window of the carriage. "Then we have the two I told you about and three more that are similar. No one has any idea as to the motivation or if there is a pattern."

"And you think I can help?"

"I'm not asking you to play detective, Ethan. If you hear of anything or know of anything that, let's say, isn't of the norm, then please let me know so I'm not chasing shadows."

He asks me about my father and Ela who he met several times and then we fall into silence. He reads his notes and papers and I think about what I will say and to whom, trying not to think of Miss Ives.

The carriage is flipped; Rusk is tipped onto his empty sleeve as he is thrown against the side. I grip and steady myself, bracing myself for the crash.

When it comes it is softer than it could be. The horses are still upright, rearing with the shock and I hear the driver speaking to them, soothing them. I stand awkwardly, pushing open the carriage door that is now above me and lift myself up. I reach down for rusk and he holds out his good arm. 'Try to use your feet to climb up," I say and he does.

He scrambles down himself and we stand, looking at the empty road, fields either side of us full of barley and rape. The driver has a lantern, but aside from that it is pitch black. There is no sign of any enemy, of what's caused the carriage to tip over. There are no holes in the road or errant roots from trees.

"Did you see anything?" I say to the driver.

He shakes his head. "Nought but what I thought was a girl on the road. I thought she were lying there." He's looking in front of him, but there is nothing to be seen. "Maybe it's my eyes." He looks worried and I see his livelihood being taken from him.

"No," I say. "It was probably some trick of the light. Your eyes are fine." And I believe my words, as does Rusk as he doesn't speak, but I know – we both do – that there was no trick of the light. That doesn't happen. Not in the pitch black.

The carriage is intact, remarkably so, and we continue on our journey through the night. Rusk sleeps, but that peace doesn't find me, so I watch the darkness outside and try not to think of what meetings are to come. In some ways this is worse than returning to my father.

It is past midday before we reach Sir Malcolm's and London is no different than how I left it. Rusk does not leave the carriage, tipping his hat to me as I get out in front of the large house that was a sort of home for a few months. I had some money now; the disinheritance that had come with my deserting the army and the slight issue of murdering my brother had ceased and I had reluctantly accepted money from my mother's estate. I had refused to take my father's. No matter how he had softened, become mellowed, memories cannot be sold.

I bang on the door, pretending that the feeling inside is not nerves, pretending that I don't care if it is Vanessa who opens the door or not. It isn't her, unless she has grown shorter and developed a beard and moustache.

"Mr Chandler. I looked out of the spyhole and saw shoulders that could not possibly belong to anyone else! Is Miss Ives with you?" I can't help but smile at the man, although his last few words have worried me.

"I thought she would be here." I step through the door into Sir Malcolm's. Things are almost as they were except there is no Sembene standing, observing.

"No. No. Sir Malcolm left to go to Africa, to return Sembene. Myself and the doctor have been residing here this last week whilst the doctor, well, recovers. We thought you had gone with Miss Ives," Lyle has become fidgety, hiding something.

I go through into the drawing room, the scene of so many discussions, disagreements. I need to confess about Sembene, I need someone to absolve me of that sin, for taking away someone they loved. "Where has Miss Ives gone?"

Lyle looks flustered. He's now clearly worried.

"We don't know. If she isn't with you, we're not sure. But I would think she had gone to the place on the moors." The voice is still clear, precise and emotionless. The man speaking is not as I remember. Victor Frankenstein is thinner, gaunt. His cheeks have sunken and the whites of his eyes are now more yellow than white. He is suffering from withdrawal, but even beyond that I can see a man with more pain than my own.

I sit down and fold my arms, looking from Lyle to Victor. Neither of them speak. Lyle looks exceptionally guilty. "When's Sir Malcolm back?"

Lyle twitches his moustache.

"Spit it out Professor."

He sighs. "You see. Things have become strange since you left – where is it you've been, by the way? – and we felt here was the most appropriate place for us to be…"

"Strange? Because they weren't strange enough before?"

"Would you like some tea, Mr Chandler? I took the liberty of bring one of my manservants here to ensure Doctor Frankenstein actually ate something."

He was still nervous. "Does Sir Malcolm know you are here?" I say.

Lyle looks away from me. "Not quite. I go and fetch the tea." He scuttles out of the room as he is want and left me with Victor who is now sitting down, holding his head in his hands. "It's my fault we're here," he says, looking up, just. "Lyle came looking for me and found me in, well, two needles away from being a corpse. He was worried about the dreams he'd been having and no one else was around so we came here. It made sense at the time."

"How did you get in?"

"Keys. Sir Malcolm had left a set at the bank. Lyle persuaded the manager to give them to him. We've been here about a week."

"Are his fears unfounded?"

"I don't think so. It will never stop will it? There have been murders, strange ones. A man and his wife were killed inside a locked room and their baby taken. Four people were murdered seemingly in broad daylight, or at least in a public area. And Professor Lyle has been having these dreams," Victor looks up at me, eyes red rimmed. He looks like hell but he doesn't need me to tell him that.

"And you?"

There's silence. "I have some issues. I'm working on them."

I remember him having a cousin called Lily whom I never met. He had been taken with her: the fact driven doctor had been consumed with love. I'd found it amusing but love can send us all to that cliff's edge.

"You've heard nothing from Miss Ives?"

Victor shakes his head. "I hadn't thought about her. I'd assumed she was with you. Do you think she'll be at the house on the moors?"

I feel panicked for a moment. "I do. She wouldn't have stayed here in an empty house." It shouldn't have been empty. She'd wanted me to stay.

I leave the room, passing Lyle on the way, hearing him call my name and upstairs. My room is as I left it, my guns in the same place, clothes. I walk into Vanessa's room and notice the absence of the cross on the wall and I want to tear out my heart and stamp on it.

She had needed me and I left her.

"Mr Chandler?" Lyle stands in the doorway. "Forgive me. I am intruding."

"No," I say without thinking.

"No you don't forgive me or no I am intruding?" His eyes don't twinkle as they would normally do, instead his face is full of concern.

"You're not intruding."

"Then, may I ask, why are you in Miss Ives' room? It isn't something I disapprove of, even if she were to be in here herself. But, my friend, you seem rather distressed."

I want to tell him. For a second I want to break and confess all, but its Vanessa's forgiveness I need first. "I need to speak to Vanessa. I need to find that she's alive and well."

"Then tomorrow we shall go to the moors. I think Victor could do with a trip out."

"What's the matter with him? Is it his cousin?"

Lyle shrugs. "I'm not sure it's just that. He hasn't confided in me in detail. It seems we all have our secrets, Mr Chandler. Now let us take tea, for it is proved to make everything almost better."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Joan's words haunted me over the next few weeks. I continued to study her books, finding plants and berries with which to make new medicines and used the more powerful magic to ensure they worked. More villagers came to me, some from further away and at night I would sometimes be visited by the girls and women who had gotten themselves in to trouble.

The moors became my familiar. I knew them well enough already, from when I was here with Joan and then with Ethan, but now I knew them better than any lovers. I sensed their moods, the wildness before the rain when saturation was desperately needed and the days when it was still, when the wind had taken itself elsewhere and they wanted to be everyone's friend.

My walks were lonely. I sought to avoid others, unless it was to help but this left me with my thoughts and my own baseness to contend with. I didn't regret turning down the offer of a normal life, where I was loved for who I was, but still I questioned God and how there had been no recognition or help, why I was left to walk alone.

We all have our dark side, the shadows that possess us, and demons that eclipse our souls. As I walked through the woods with thunder circling I asked God to give me the strength to do what I was put on this world for, to stop the spread of the fallen angel's evil, even if that meant speaking his language in order to do so.

It was late summer, the beginning of autumn when Mr Donne found me picking blackberries that were already bursting with sugary juice. He was casually dressed for riding; as it turned out he was looking for a lost horse with one of his men and had just found her before spotting me.

"Won't you come for dinner soon?" He smiled, his eyes twinkling in a way that reminded me of Mr Gray at his most persuasive. I paused, crouched down at the bottom of the blackberry bush where the fruit was only just ripe. As I stood up, I saw what was on offer, just as Joan had shown me: a pretty life, here, with children and a kind husband. For a moment I felt free, as if my clipped wings had been allowed to grow back and I had this choice, a future without complication. There was no soul to exchange, no fee to pay.

And then I fell backwards to the ground, seeing London and Sir Malcolm, a familiar figure placing hands around his neck. Other images entered, like pages in a book being flicked and then there was light again, the sun and the moors, the purple blood from a blackberry on my hand.

"Are you alright, Miss Ives?" He looked almost afraid. "You had me worried for a moment."

I took his hand and stood up, aware but not caring that my dress was stained and my hair as wild as the moor itself. "I shall be fine, Mr Donne. I fear I stood too quickly, my mother was the same. I shall take myself home, I think."

"Then let me accompany you. I shall try to persuade to you sample my cook's famous grouse." He walked with me - for what was the harm? – discussing food, restaurants in London with which he was familiar and his plans to develop a marker not far from Ballentrae.

As we came towards the cottage I saw a carriage, dark figures caste into silhouettes by the sun.

"It appears you have guests," Mr Donne said. "Your family?'

"Possibly. I wasn't expecting anyone." But maybe I was.

It had been months. The madness created by Evelyn Poole and her master was in the past. Ethan had travelled across water, to America I expected and Sir Malcolm to Africa. I did not know of Professor Lyle or the doctor. But I had dreamed of Ethan Chandler, the night before, and before that, each time the dream had more clarity, more colour as if he was drawing nearer and now I knew he was here.

They weren't aware of our approach, knocking on the cottage door. Then Mr Chandler turned, as if a sixth sense had instructed him and saw Mr Donne and myself. I read his eyes and saw the tension in his shoulder change.

"Miss Ives, it's good to see you." He stood against the sky, broader than I remembered and more rugged. His skin was tanned and his hair lightened by the sun.

There was too much to say or to shout. I felt anger writhe up within me like a snake about to evolve into Medusa but it passed effortlessly into relief. I could say nothing.

"Miss Ives," Professor Lyle stepped forward, his hair as coiffed as ever. "I'm so glad to find you well. We were hoping you were as we wanted to reconvene our little party. Your friend?"

"This is Mr William Donne, who owns the land in this area." I stepped aside to allow the men to greet. Ethan stayed back, assessing Mr Donne.

"I was accompanying Miss Ives home for no other reason than her company. It is good to see her friends are here." He turned to me. "Miss Ives, the offer to dine at the manor is extended of course. I do hope you'll be able to attend some time." He smiled, the light in his eyes has diminished, or maybe it was simply being outshone.

Mr Donne left us, a silent foursome on these silent moors, the scent of the purple heather rising to us.

"I'm sorry, Miss Ives, if we had taken you by surprise. We wanted to assure ourselves that you were well," Lyle said. "May we go inside? The good doctor has not been well and I fear the journey has taken it out of him."

The followed me into the cottage, Lyle already taken by certain of Joan's objects. Victor was silent and I dared not asked him of his cousin. "Has Sir Malcolm returned?" I asked, lighting the stove.

"Not as yet," Lyle said. "I might say, you do have some curios here."

"Feel free to look around. The place is full of unusual items. I found another cupboard full only the other day," said, turning round to look straight into Ethan's eyes.

"Mr Donne," he said. "He's…"

"Inherited the land from Sir Geoffrey. He takes a friendly interest, nothing more." I wanted to add that there could've been if I'd wanted it; that he hadn't left and rejected me but I couldn't say the words, even if Lyle and Victor hadn't been there.

Ethan nodded, sitting down on the couch where he'd slept for those weeks. I passed the tea, Lyle drowning out the silence and I smiled. They felt like home.

"Anyway, Miss Ives. Myself and Doctor Frankenstein will take a walk around to take in the air. I'm hoping it will add a little colour to Victor's complexion," Lyle said, standing up, looking from me to Ethan. "When we return we shall discuss our next steps and a little more about where we find ourselves." He ushered Victor outside, tearing him away from the vials I had arranged on one of the tables. I feared a debate arising about the usage of my tonics and tinctures, one that may have done Victor some good, but it would and could wait for another time.

"When did you get back?" I said, still sitting.

"You tell me."

"Yesterday." My dreams had been right.

"Yes."

"I thought you were going to die."

"So did I. I wanted to." His eyes didn't leave mine.

"What you become…"

"It's still the same. It will never go."

"But you've learned some control. How to force it and how to pause it?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"I dreamt about you."

He stood up and walked, kept his eyes away from mine. "I shouldn't have gone, but I couldn't live with what I had done, Vanessa. Sembene…"

"Do Lyle and Victor know?"

He shook his head. "Not yet. I will tell them."

"You went to America?"

"My father had me extradited. The charges against me over here, the things that I was accused of that were true, they have been dropped. I'm almost a free man." He looked uncomfortable and I understood that this was because of his father's influence.

"I'm surprised you let your father help."

"It meant I could come back here. There are still things going on, strange things. Hecate – Evelyn's daughter – found me in America. Rusk, the inspector, thinks something not human is committing murders and…"

"I may be responsible for some catastrophes also," Victor entered, looking windblown. "I'd prefer not to explain right now, not when my only mode of getting back to London is with your good selves."

"I'm not sure 'good' is the correct description," Lyle said. "I assume Mr Chandler has explained our presence, Miss Ives?"

I paused. He had, but not fully, but now was not the time for such disclosure. "He has told me enough. I will return to Sir Malcolm's but there are a few things I need to do first here."

"How long?"

"Three days should be enough. I need time to prepare the remedies I've promised."

"We'll send a coach for you in three days time," Ethan said, on his feet still. I'd expected him to stay, or to make mention of it.

"Less. Make it two. And why not leave the doctor here if he needs to recuperate. The air away from London will do him good," I said. "Dr Frankenstein, what say you? Does that suit?"

"I'll not be much company, Miss Ives." It was unusual to find him so amenable with suggestions.

"I don't need the company, Doctor, but we shall make what we can of it."

Ethan had moved closer to the door, as if he was anxious to leave. I could have made a potion to ease the tearing in my chest but that was akin to offering my soul. "We shouldn't keep our driver waiting, Professor," he said and after a few hastened farewells they were gone, leaving myself and the doctor in a house that had never been more silent.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Victor slouched on the chair, sipping the tea I had made for him. He was gaunt, red eyed and looked like more of a monster than many we had faced. "Is there anything I can get you?" I asked after the silence had bedded in. He had watched as I had prepared potions and tinctures, spoke archaic words and mumbled prayers. All without passing comment.

"I'd say a priest if I was religious."

"Then take me as your priest." I stood in front of him, arms by my sides, as open as I could make myself.

He looked away, not meeting my eyes.

"I know so many secrets, Victor. One more is not going to test me."

"Why did you come here, Vanessa?"

"To escape London."

"What was there to escape from? I know there was no Sir Malcolm or Sembene, but you had friends – Mr Gray?"

The question was loaded and I recalled his dismay at how his cousin and Dorian had danced. "I keep my distance from Mr Gray. I was not safe around him because of who he made me become."

"If Mr Chandler had been in London would you have left?"

"Tell me about your cousin. How is she?"

It was cruel, I know, but to skirt the surface of the water means you may fall under.

"She isn't my cousin. I lied."

I sat down, my hands reaching for my cards automatically. Instead I found a cigarette and lit it slowly, waiting for the doctor's next remark.

"If I told you who she was you would think me improbable. " He spat the words and I saw the distaste he had for himself, the self-loathing that had resulted in his journey to the abyss of oblivion.

"I have seen much that most would consider improbable, Doctor. I see things when I smoke these cigarettes that would have me placed in an asylum." I exhaled a line of smoke, revelling in the sensation, determined to not thing about Ethan, concentrating on the doctor instead.

"It isn't an act of goodness or kindness what I have done. I have created monsters."

And then he told me. All of it.

I smoked and saw Joan, sitting on the couch listening too. She passed no comment, although I was sure she would later, and I passed no judgement for he had not killed a man as I had I. He had only given back life, so in our own ways, we had both played god.

"I would happily walk into the middle of these moors and stay there until winter came and reduced me to bone," he said. "What have I done?"

"Doctor Frankenstein. I cannot justify your actions, only you can do that, but what I can say is that none of us are innocent. All of us have committed our own atrocities and we can only do what we can to put them right, or atone in other ways."

He looked at me with bloodshot eyes. By now it was dark. The swallows had taken their suppers and found the rocks to nest, the lapwings too. The sky outside was a dark sheet, holed by numerous stars who had seen the wars of man throughout every decade.

"I think she's dangerous."

"Lily?"

"Yes. She is not the same as when Mr Chandler knew her."

"Maybe she wasn't the person Mr Chandler thought she was?"

"She isn't the same person now."

"Victor, Brona died and was dead for some days. Her soul was elsewhere, who knows. Who knows what came back with her." I watch him, focusing on only his hands. "You loved her. It's difficult when one faces rejection."

"I loved the idea of her. She was innocent; I was her teacher. It sounds so ridiculous now but to have someone who I could look after…"

An owl hoots outside. It is meant to be an omen of death in some religions or beliefs but death is everywhere, a stepping-stone between this world and the next. "You will have that opportunity again, Victor. And this time it will come to fruition."

"Who would want me? I bring dead things to life."

"There was more than Lily?"

He looked at me and I knew the answer. "Tell me your troubles, Vanessa. I need to think about something else. The man you were with today – Mr Donne? An apt name maybe?"

"He's the local landowner. I think he's tried to court me."

"But you have refrained from his advances?"

It was a complicated answer to give. "He is an attractive man and I am flattered by his interest, but any acceptance of them would mean staying here."

"And why would that be a bad thing? What does London have to offer except its smog and viciousness?"

"I think I am needed there."

"Because of what you are?"

I was silent, taking another cigarette instead of answering, because I wasn't sure of what answer to give.

"I'm sorry, Miss Ives. I did not wish to upset you." He stood up, as if to go somewhere.

"No. I am accepting who I am. It may take sometime, but I know what I am and I would not choose another path." I found myself standing, facing him.

"Then I admire you, as I am unsure I am able to follow this path I have clearly carved out for myself."

"Do you believe in fate, doctor?"

"No."

"Then maybe you should. Maybe all of this has happened for a reason."

His eyes seemed to reach into my soul. "Does Mr Chandler feel the same?"

"Aside from today I have not spoken to Mr Chandler for the last few months. I wasn't even sure he was alive," I heard Joan tutting as I spoke, cross at the lie.

"It was of the utmost importance that he found you. I thought you should know that." He looked tired, as if sleep needed to take him properly this time, allow him some release.

"We spent too much time together to not be concerned. But he should have known that himself. Doctor Frankenstein – would you allow me to give you something to help you sleep without troublesome dreams?"

I was surprised when he said yes. "Nothing else apart from morphine works. I may as well try your goods."

It was already made, a popular request. Smoky quartz with valerian root and passiflora that grew in the garden, imported from somewhere exotic and pilfered by Joan.

He drank it wordlessly and I then showed him to the room upstairs, leaving him to perform his ministrations. I took the couch, pulling a light blanket over me and inhaling Ethan's scent that was still there even after all these months.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine 

Lyle says nothing as we depart Ballentrae Moor, not a single word, but his expression has chapters written across it. I choose not to elaborate, instead looking out of the window at the scenery I know so well.

I hadn't expected her to have accrued a gentleman friend. I don't know what I expected. Her soul in torment again? An empty village after she had more thoroughly avenged her mentor? My thoughts had been too full of myself and how I had left her to consider what might have occurred in the meantime.

"You did not wish to stay?" Lyle eventually says. "Do you think Miss Ives will be safe?"

"Miss Ives is a tough cookie," I say. "She has the ability to look after herself for a couple more days." But I doubt the words as soon as I say them. Hecate Poole would know soon, if not already, that I was back in the country and Miss Ives would almost certainly be a target for her, to succeed where her mother had failed. Ela had spoken of the witch one night when she had been casting the runes, warning me of things to come, preparing me for others. It was then she'd cast light on why I had become the thing I was, less of a punishment than I'd understood. More of a calling.

"I thought you might have wanted to stay for other reasons," Lyle says, looking out of the window, avoiding my eyes.

"Other reasons like what?" I say, challenging. My patience is wearing thin, not because of Lyle, he just happens to be here which isn't entirely fair.

Lyle sighs. "Your agitation during the journey here, at it not being fast enough for you plus your demeanour when you saw Miss Ives with the country gentleman – who I must say was very dashing – gave you away somewhat. There's no hiding how close you became earlier in the year, Mr Chandler. Anyone with a working pair of eyes could see that you were both attracted to each other, although it is not considered proper for anyone in society to point it out."

"I should've stayed. I could've stayed. But…" I had returned, thinking I was meant to be her protector. _The wolf of God_. There to keep her safe. I had needed to go to America to find that out, but now I was back I wasn't sure I was required.

"You did what you needed to Mr Chandler. And isn't that all any of us can ever do?"

"To some degree. I guess I thought there might be a different reception waiting for me."

Lyle looks back out of the window. "Give it time, Mr Chandler. But then that's what my mother used to say to my father about me finding a wife."

"But you did. You are married."

"And we have the certificate to prove it. Now tell me about your adventures in America."

It is late by the time we return, Lyle insisting we stop for dinner at an inn he knew of, run by an acquaintance of his who was just as flamboyant. Lyle leaves me at Sir Malcolm's, returning to his home and his kind of wife and I rattle round in the house with out Sembene, without Vanessa.

It is later still when I hear the door creak open and I sit up, bolt upright before pulling on trousers and running downstairs. At first I fear Hecate or worse, but instead a woman with skin like black velvet stands in the doorway, holding a small bag. Her eyes blaze with fire and her shoulders are relaxed and proud.

"Hello," I say. She doesn't care to look at my chest or arms or assess and danger. She merely steps through the doorway, looking into my eyes and smiles, bows slightly.

"Hello Ba'cho."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Sir Malcolm enters after her, carrying bags. His beard is there again and he looks more like himself. He sees us facing each other, like two cats about to scrap and pauses, dropping the bags down.

"Mr Chandler," he says and my eyes break away. He embraces me, something he hasn't down before and something I didn't expect, but it is good to see him. "Where is Vanessa?"

"She is at her cottage," I say. "I arrived home from America last night. Myself, Professor Lyle and Doctor Frankenstein went to see her today. The doctor has stayed there for the benefit of the air for a couple of days."

"He is not well?"

We are all standing in the same spaces still, a tableaux. "I think he needed the break."

"I see. Mr Chandler, this is Ebele. She wishes to work here and I thought we could do with some assistance in the kitchen," Sir Malcolm says. Ebele's eyes are still on me and she is smiling softly, but she doesn't repeat her greeting of my Indian name.

"It's good to meet you, Mr Chandler. I hope I can help look after you."

I notice a marking on her hands, a familiar one, a design I grew up with. "You spent time with the Apache in New Mexico?"

"No, Mr Chandler. I have never been there." She looks at her hands. "These markings show what I learned, not as a girl, as a woman. They are my juju's. I will tell you about them some time."

Sir Malcolm smiles and ushers her away to a room I have never seen used. The house is too large for him but I doubt he'll ever leave.

"It's been a long trip, Ethan. Shall we talk in the morning?" he says when he returns. "I can't tell you how much I am looking forward to sleeping in my own bed."

"Goodnight, Sir Malcolm," I say, needing time to think about what I have seen, on Ballentrae Moor and here also. "We'll speak in the morning." I walk away, my name on her tongue still ringing in my ear.

I am woken in the early hours by a dream. Vanessa stands next to the fetish made of her by Evelyn Poole, pulling out her own hair and attaching it to the doll. _You can do nothing, wolf,_ the doll says. _She has chosen a different path._

Sweat drips down me, my eyes blurred with sleep. As I open them I see Hecate Poole, sitting at the end of the bed, dressed as a fine lady in hat and gloves, overdressed for the weather.

"Did you have a bad dream?"

"What do you want?"

"Just to say hello. I came to see you in America but your little dark friend's protection was stronger than I thought it would be, given her age and expertise." Hecate stands up, an umbrella at her side and I stare at her.

"You're not real," I say. 'You're a projection."

"Who knows, Ethan, Wolf of God. You haven't cast any of your own little spells, have you? And Vanessa's scorpion could do with a bit of a touch up. Where is she, by the way? Does she no longer need her wolf's help?" She's moved closer to me now, smiling. "I'm still here for you, Ethan. To help you serve your purpose."

"Really? What exactly is my purpose?"

She smiles flirtatiously, ignoring my sarcasm. "To rule at the side of our master."

"I don't have a master, darlin'. The only person I serve is myself. So I hate to disappoint you, but I think you're wasting your time trying to make a convert out of me." I am fully awake now, awake and angry, but I know her power. I try to move towards my guns but something invisible blocks me.

She laughs. "I took precautions, Mr Chandler. I am not as foolish as my mother. How do you feel about ripping out your friend's windpipe with your teeth? Did you feel powerful after? He knew your power and was probably glad that it was you who took his life, a sacrifice. Don't let his life be in vain, Ethan. You are destined for greatness yourself, not as someone's pet guard dog who rolls over when she gives a command…"

Hecate turns around abruptly, the door opening. I expect to see Sir Malcolm, but instead it's Ebele. She wears a red woven cape and her eyes match, an orange tinge to them that reminds me of times during rituals with the apaches where folk will take on board other souls willingly. Hecate looks afraid, she's panicking and backing away from the bed and the door. I find I can move and reach for my gun, Ebele's presence has already weakened her.

" _En calooat ini woni._ _Dañ_ _, yay._ _Mi yiɗaa ma. Suka o jaaŋgi. Nagge hiri."_ Ebele's words are almost a whisper until the end when they become a hiss. Hecate pales, the outfit disappearing, morphing back into her barely human form.

"You should be dead," she says. "We killed your kind years ago."

"Some of us were too strong. _Dañ yay_ , Hecate."

"I'll speak to you again, Ethan," I hear the words but don't see her anymore.

Soft chanting hovers through my room, the window drapes shiver. It's as if the words aren't coming from Ebele, that the walls have developed lips instead.

Then there is silence. Ebele smiles calmly and steps further into the room. I keep hold of the gun. "You are a skinwalker, Ba'cho. Your name means wolf, but you have been called it since before you became it. There are legends written about your kind, prophecies that you will be instrumental in stopping dark forces dominating mankind."

Part of me fears this woman who has just appeared, from Africa, with Sir Malcolm and part finds her familiar. "How do you know me?" I think I already know the answer.

"I will tell you in days to come. You have friends who know me. Ethan, she is going to come again and again. Hecate is a strong witch and will influence others, but she does not have her master on her side, that is what she seeks. I will protect the house my way, but it may not last. When Sir Malcolm's Miss Ives returns she will add to its strength, without even knowing of mine."

I sit on the edge of the bed, the gun now on the bedside table. "You don't want her to know about you?" This feels wrong somehow.

"No, it isn't that. Let her find out for herself. She is still learning," Ebele backs away to the door. "Goodnight, Ethan. Sleep well. Hecate will not bother you again tonight."

The Navajo Indians have a belief in _yee naaldlooshii,_ or skinwalkers, witches who through breaking a taboo have acquired the power to take the form of another animal. Such people are usually evil, wanting the power into order to kill or maim or terrorize others. Ela first called me a skinwalker when she found me at my brother's grave. Knowing the legend behind it the hatred of myself deepened. I have never asked for this, it was given to me and at the start of my trip to America I gladly would've ended my life to be rid of it, but then she had taught me further, Tak a silent audience.

My eyes close and I feel something akin to peace as I settle for sleep. For the first time in months, since before Vanessa even came to find me in that bar, I know I won't sleep with half an ear open, waiting for whatever specter is hunting.

Doctor Frankenstein accompanied me that morning to deliver the medicines I had prepared for those who had requested it. It wasn't something Joan had done: she had been reclusive and that had been where suspicion in such a small village had developed. In the last few weeks I had begun to be regarded as a force not to be feared. I didn't take their offerings of money or silver or food and when I recognised a face from the night of Joan's burning I had learned to look away. Ballentrae Moor was as far removed a society from London as could be thought: superstition was as strong as the church, and while London had embraced the ideas of science and the supernatural to a certain degree, the devil was everywhere for those of Ballentrae. How little they understood.

"Miss Vanessa!" I turned around as we took a path to the local inn to deliver a remedy for gout. "Miss Vanessa! Can I come to see you tomorrow?"

It was Alice, who was seven, a tiny girl with fair hair and fragile health. I had studied the books to try and help her as her parents couldn't afford the doctor. They had been scared of me at first, wary, as if I was about to wave a wand and turn them into something nasty, but Alice had been curious, unafraid and gradually I had her parents' trust. I would miss her when I returned to London.

"I'm not sure," I said. "I don't know if I'll be there. I'm going back to London on the next day or two."

Her face crumpled and broke my heart.

"I'm going to leave you everything you need for a few weeks and then I'll be back," I said, putting and arm around her.

"Miss Ives," the doctor said. He had been hovering a few paces behind, looking at the scenery. "The gentleman you were with yesterday is coming towards us."

I looked up at him and smiled, amused. "He is a friend, Victor. He is nothing to be worried about. Meet Alice."

She solemnly stuck her hand out and shook his. He managed to smile and asked her a very unchildlike question. I half listened to her response as Mr Donne approached, blonde hair ruffled by the wind and wearing riding attire.

"Good morning," he said, the epitome of pleasantness. "Although I think rain is on its way."

"When is it not?"

"Very true. You still have your guests?"

"Just the good doctor. We leave the day after tomorrow or even tomorrow to return to London."

He looked disappointed, as if my words were an unexpected blow. If this meeting had been before the visit of Mr Chandler I knew my feelings would have been different. Instead I braced myself.

"I thought you were here for good." He began to step away so that I would follow him. "Or at least until you had dined with me."

"I'm sorry Mr Donne, but there is business to attend to in London. I am needed there."

"And it cannot be delayed? Or dealt with by my own solicitors?"

"It is not business of that nature. I am sorry to leave and I do intend to return but I cannot promise when." He removed his hat and faced me. We were now a little further away from the doctor and Alice, who were now involved in an in depth conversation, and out of earshot.

He looked down at his feet. I reached forward and lifted his chin to look in his eyes. "You are a good man, Mr Donne. In the short time I have be acquainted with you I know you to be a kind man. But I am not a kind person in the way you are and I have my fair share of battles to fight still. And they aren't here."

He could not raise a smile. "I could try to fight them for you? If you will let me?"

"No. I'm sorry. By the time I've returned you'll be happy and content and I will be a memory."

He shook his head. "I fear not, Miss Ives, for you have rather captured my imagination unlike any other."

I stood on my tiptoes and kissed his cheek, as I had done with Dorian months ago. "I wish you well." The doctor and Alice were making their way to us, still talking. I called to them and Mr Donne tipped his hat and walked away.

"We shall leave first thing," I said to the doctor once Alice had made her way back home.

There were a few seconds of silence while he processed this, the call of the lapwings' haunting melody louder as we moved away from the village. "You are ready to return?"

"Yes." And I was.


	11. Chapter 11

It's almost as if nothing has changed. The parlour, with its leather chairs and polished furniture, would make my father envious. Even after a day, Ebele has restored the room to a standard Sembene would've been satisfied with.

He is missed. As much as his name has been rarely mentioned, he is missed by all. I haven't yet confessed, although at some point I must, even though it may mean the end of my time here.

Ebele stays in the background but I hear her singing in the kitchen as she cooks; Sir Malcolm looks bemused as he catches the notes and offers me a brief smile. "It is good to see you, Mr Chandler," he says as we sit together, Lyle sipping from a cup of tea in what can only be described as a dainty fashion. "Have your troubles been resolved?"

"To a certain extent," I say. "I shall be happier when Miss Ives has returned."

"We all shall. I was disappointed she wasn't here when I returned, but then she is her own woman. How was your time in America? Did you become reacquainted with your father?"

I nod. "And some old friends too. My father has left New Mexico for Washington now but I think he is now more accepting of who I am."

A shadow crosses Sir Malcolm's face. "For me it was the hardest thing when I look back now. I didn't accept Peter for who he was; instead I made him believe he had to be my replica rather than who he was to be."

"Oh my father is fully aware of what I am," I say, finishing the coffee Ebele has made. "Just as I am of him." I would never like the man: he has beaten that out of me, but he was still my father and the only person I could call family except for this strange band of people sitting here, perusing the papers.

A cough comes from Lyle who has called in on his way to the museum. "There's been another one."

"Another what?" Sir Malcolm looks worried, concerned.

"Murder. Allow me to explain: while you have been away, all of you, there has been a series of attacks on gentlemen, and well, just plain men, across London. See, look here." Lyle spreads the paper across Sir Malcolm's table. "They're saying it's another Jack the Ripper, but one who attacks men instead. Six men in total, two were together at the time, leaving a gentlemen's club in Islington. The latest was last night."

I scan the pages. There is nothing there to make me suspicious of anything otherworldly, from Vanessa's demimonde. Nor is there anything to suggest a beast.

"How would a man be taken like that? Unless he was intoxified."

"That's what makes me guarded, Sir Malcolm. We know what became of Mrs Poole, but not of her beguiling daughter, Miss Hecate…" He is stopped by a knock at the door.

Sir Malcolm exits and I half expect Rusk to be there, paying a visit. But instead there is joy in Sir Malcolm's voice and Lyle stands, glancing at me. "It seems that Miss Ives has arrived early."

"It seems she has." I stand, remaining at the back of the room. This is the chasm I have tried to avoid falling into for all of these months. She is my fear and my salvation, but to take that step and drop into those depths needs a man braver than I am right now.

"Miss Ives!" I hear Lyle exclaim. "So lovely that you are back earlier than anticipated. And Victor – you are starting to regain your colour!"

I smother a smile at Victor's awkwardness, the step back that he takes to avoid the prospect of Lyle's embrace.

She looks at me: hair in tangles from the journey, half up and half down and unlike any woman I've come across. "Mr Chandler."

"Miss Ives."

And the room stops moving and the air is still as if God itself has held its breath.

"I've made some tea." Ebele moves into the tableaux like the breeze across the plains and all eyes fall on her. Vanessa smiles, looks mystified by the new face in the room.

"This is Ebele," Sir Malcolm says. "She's from Senegal and asked to work over in England. This is Miss Ives." Ebele stands straight and nods at Vanessa, a slight smile playing at her lips. Her eyes are that of a wise woman, the same as Ela's, and I see Vanessa relax, her shoulders drop.

"It is good to finally meet you, Miss," Ebele says. "Sir Malcolm has told me a lot about you."

I watch Vanessa's reaction. She will not take kindly to a stranger knowing too much about her, but even if Sir Malcolm has told her little, Ebele will already be able to see what she needs to know. "Has he told you about breakfasts?" She smiles.

There is a laugh, something between women I'm not privy to. "I shall see what there is in the cupboard." Ebele smiles and leaves, leaving the five of us

Conversation about the journey back from Ballentrae, back from Africa rattles around the room. I sit and listen, contributing as expected but without holding the floor and I watch Vanessa when I can to see if she's changed. Her look flits to me when she thinks I'm not aware, weighing me up and speculating just as much as I am.

"So, Mr Chandler, how do you plan to spend your day?" she says. Lyle and Sir Malcolm are discussing the murders again. Victor is looking bored.

"How are you spending it, Miss Ives?"

"I may visit a few shops. See what the fashions are for the season. Would you care to join me Doctor?" She smiles at him playfully.

He doesn't rise. "I'm afraid I have several journals to read, Miss Ives. Maybe Mr Chandler could accompany you instead?"

She looks at me questioning. "Tomorrow," I say. "A walk about town to see what's changed will be good. There's no reason a few shops can't be visited on the way."

"And what about today?"

"Read. See what I've missed while I've been away." Send a letter back west, but I don't tell her that, given the last letter I sent I'm not proud of.

"In that case I shall take the time to settle back in and unpack." She stands, acknowledges Sir Malcolm and Lyle and leaves the room.

It's all I can do not to follow her.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Is there something wrong with your meal?" Dorian looked across the table to where Ruby sat, fork playing with the meat.

She shook her head. "Not at all. It's delicious."

"But how can you know that when you haven't tasted it?"

"It smells divine. Where's Lily?"

Dorian stared away from her. It was the third time she had asked in the space of an hour. "As I said before, she's had some business to attend to and will be back later."

"She was meant to take me out tonight. I was looking forward to it."

He stood up and walked out of the room, leaving his meal that hadn't tasted particularly well anyhow. Ruby was trying his patience. He had spoken to Lily about her, that maybe her time with them had run its course and they should find another protégé, but for some reason Lily had fixated upon Ruby.

He heard the sound of a door and the bustle of a dress. Dorian paused, felt himself relax then tense. "Lily?"

"Indeed," her voice rang out clearly. "Have you eaten?

"Almost," he walked down the corridor to her. "Ruby has been anxiously waiting for you all evening. She's positively itching to go out again."

"Wonderful," Lily peeled off her gloves and raised a hand to his cheek. "But I think we shall leave tonight's lesson. I have had such a trying day."

"You're back!" There was a scrambling of steps and Ruby appeared next to them, a smile beaming across her face. "Are we still going out?"

"Ruby, child," Lily grasped the girl's shoulders and studied her. "I think we shall keep to ourselves this evening. I rather fancy dancing in the ballroom with all of Dorian's queer paintings watching us. Maybe you could play piano for us."

Ruby looked petulant. "That's no fun. We were meant to be finding that man tonight. I was looking forward to it."

"I am afraid my dear girl that you shall have to be bored and wait for another night. He sharn't be about this evening anyway. He's a little tied up at present. Tomorrow. Or the day after. Now, give Dorian and I some time alone. I have much to tell him."

Ruby grimaced and glared at Dorian, her chest heaving. She turned and stormed away, leaving them alone. "She needs to go," he said. "I no longer find her amusing."

"She still has her uses and she is so fascinating when she is with a man. You should join us some time, see her in action. Then you'd understand why I'm keeping her as my pet," she said, then touched her lips to his, her tongue playing against his flesh. His body reacted immediately, her cold skin making him burn. Nimble fingers began to unlace the dress of his living corpse, whose soul he still didn't understand or know to whom it belonged.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I find her in my bedroom, staring out of the window over London. Her hair is lose about her shoulders and she is wearing a simple dress, one I recognise from when we were at the cut wife's cottage. Rather than it be strange to find her in here it brings a sense of completeness. In America I thought of her in my bed, the night she was scared of the witches and of herself, her own sanity.

"Vanessa," I say, announcing my presence. She turns and looks at me. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, Mr Chandler. I do believe I am. Are you?"

"I think so." Being alone with her after so long apart when there is so much to say – I wasn't sure where to start. "Have you unpacked?"

"Yes." She moves closer to me. I can smell her, the soap she uses, the hint of perfume. "I'm sorry to come into your room without asking. I wanted to check the view."

I fold my arms to keep me from grasping her shoulders. "The view's the same as it was before I left."

"As are many other aspects. Ethan." My name ripples off her tongue. "The woman who has returned with Sir Malcolm – did you know her before?"

"No." It is a strange question but I am not surprised she's asked.

"Is she a witch?"

"You would be more qualified than me to answer that." She's closer now, close enough for me to pull her into my chest and keep her there. I feel an ache inside that I have refused to acknowledge for months.

"She's here for a reason."

"All of us are." She holds my gaze and steps into me, putting her forehead onto my chest and I envelope her, remembering the last time I held her only now my conscience is my own. Her hair smells of the outdoors and I don't want to let her go.

"I thought you were dead," she says, her words muffled into my chest. "I thought I would never see you again." She steps back and I see tears. I wipe them away, stroking her cheek with my thumb. I sit down on the bed; she follows, sitting next to me, her shoulder touching mine.

"You can't get rid of me that easily. Besides, there were no other dance partners with as much patience as you." It makes her smile. I want to pull her on to me, onto the bed where I can make her mine as I should've done months ago, but instead I keep my hands to myself. I have done damage by leaving her and there will be no quick fix.

Her head tips on to my shoulder and we both watch out of the window at the silhouettes of London, saying nothing. Something ominous lurks in the air, something is coming but at this moment it doesn't matter because we are back in the same room as each other, breathing the same air.


	12. Chapter 12

I felt warmth run through me that had been lacking for years, if it had ever been there at all. Mr Chandler's arms were now around me, his fingers weaved in my hair. It was a hold that promised much and as I turned my head to look at him I saw in his eyes the look I suppose I had been craving for throughout the summer, when I feared him dead.

And then he let me go, sitting down on the bed in a spot where we had been before. "Before," he began. "Before this…" He stopped, unsure of himself and I saw the boy before the gunslinger who had his own western show. "I'm being presumptuous, Miss Ives. After what I've done and being the monster you know I am you shouldn't want me in your home, let alone in the same room." Fear was sketched across his face. I reached out and touched his skin, feeling the start of rough stubble under my fingertips.

"You are as much a monster as I, Ethan Chandler." I sat down next to him, our legs touching.

"You have always shown me kindness," he said.

"You mentioned as much in your letter."

He looked to the window. "Had I known what my father had done I would never have left it. I would've gone to America without handing myself in to Rusk and I wouldn't have left you the way I did."

I put my hand on top of his and intertwine my fingers. "It's done. I managed without you."

"You always would. You're the strongest person I know."

I shake my head. "There are those who are stronger than me. Look at yourself. You came back. Whatever has happened to you in the past you have survived." I let the silence hang after I've spoken.

"Do you still think that together things will be a little lighter for us?"

"Yes." It was Joan who had persuaded me, during her visits, challenging me in the way she had always managed to. I wanted to be self-sufficient, not needing of anyone but myself but my thoughts had persistently returned to the man now next to me. "We have both stepped into that dark place but still call our souls our own."

"When I was back at my father's I spent some time with an Indian woman called Ela. I've known her since I was a boy. The tribe she belongs to believe in skinwalkers, where men take on characteristics of an animal through magic and the wearing of that animal's skin. I never wore a wolf's skin, but my brother did."

"You have never spoken of a brother."

He looked at me and I saw something in his eyes that had never been there before. "It's not something I speak of." He turned to face me, angling his body on the bed so our knees touched and I could see into his brown eyes.

"But it troubles you."

"Yes. It does."

"Then tell me." I reached out to touch his thigh and he didn't flinch or move away, instead capturing my hand with his and holding it there.

"I had a wife. Though we weren't man and wife in any sense other than name and so I could protect her. She was called Laura and she was beautiful throughout, although she struggled as an adult – she stayed a child."

"So you married her to keep her safe."

Ethan nodded. "She was like a little girl, but the men in the town didn't see her that way. She was fair game. The things they said…" He stopped, head now in his hands as he remembered. "My brother tried to be like my father. He tried to be cruel and domineering but he didn't have the intelligence and he resented me because I did. It was like there was a war going on that I didn't want to be part of."

"So you joined the army?"

"For many reasons. I knew Laura would be looked after by my father's household and I had reached the end of my patience with him and my brother. The army needed men so I joined. When I returned Thomas, my brother, had changed."

"He was a skinwalker?"

"He had become one. He'd killed an apache who walked like a wolf and performed a ritual he'd learnt from Ela's tribe, an Indian who could be bought, and if nothing else, Thomas had access to my father's money. I came home and… disagreed with how things had changed, the way the estate was being ran, the way the Indians were being treated. I had expected changes while I was away but not to the extent that my brother had allowed."

I wanted to lean into him, to offer him some comfort through touch and let him know that he wasn't alone but that, I knew, was not what he needed. "Did he hurt Laura?"

"Yes. It was after an argument when I demanded things changed. I had seen too much while I was away in the army and I couldn't stand what how the blacks and the Indians were treated. Thomas and I fought. He left the house and went for Laura, getting to her before I could. I found him in the woods several hours later – a full moon – as saw him as a wolf. Laura was dead beside him, her windpipe torn out and he had my friend's wife, Tak's wife. She was still alive.

"I killed Thomas with my bare hands. How, I don't know, not now I know my own strength when I've changed. But I was furious. He resented me, had done since I was born. I was always stronger, cleverer, quicker and my father's favourite, although I never cared for him. And he took the one thing that was pure in my life." He stood up, walked towards the window. "We were married, but she was never my wife. She was my ward for my to protect and I failed. Like I did with Brona. Like I did with you."

"You saved me, Ethan. I was mad, I wanted to die and you stopped that…"

"But I couldn't save you from the dark, Vanessa."

I let the silence surround us, choosing my next words carefully. "I was already taken there, Ethan. I think what I did allowed me to understand what I was capable of doing even with my soul as my own."

"Do you regret it?"

"Do you regret killing your brother?"

He didn't respond. Instead I stood up and headed to the window, where only a few months ago we stood together in the same place, but with a greater pain. "I don't know if anyone can protect me other than myself, but I feel stronger when you are here."

He leant against the wall, hands gripping the top of my arms and clutching me. "When I killed Thomas something of his passed to be and I became what I am now, what you saw when we were at the witch's house. Ela helped me when I was home. She talked to me and made me understand that I can do nothing about what I've become, I have to accept it. She gave me a tonic that helps. When it happens I have more control." He wouldn't look at me, as if he was ashamed to admit to me what he perceived was a weakness.

I moved closer to him, knowing words wouldn't do, stood on tiptoes and pressed my lips to his briefly and stepped away. His eyes seemed to shine a little more, a slight smile crossed his face. "The day you found me and asked me to meet Sir Malcolm I told you I'd be there if you smiled. I still think I'd do anything for that smile."

My fingers touched my lips and I realized that I was smiling. "I think that's a good thing."

"Shall we take a walk? Get some air? You mentioned visiting the shops?"

"You're offering to go shopping with a girl? Mr Chandler, that is brave."

"Maybe rather foolish too."


	13. Chapter 13

We walked around town, the air dense and dark compared to that of the moors. Ethan pointed out places and told stories of ghosts and hauntings, becoming the performer that I had seen the first time I had met him. We walked passed the waxworks, Putney's, that was now closed, two murdered there, leaving a blind daughter behind.

"Do you think there is something untoward with what happened here?" I asked him.

Ethan stopped and took in the building, the crowds milling around us. "Lyle seems to think so. It's odd. The strength needed to kill two people with bare hands and leaving the daughter behind."

"Has the daughter said anything? She was a witness even if she is unable to describe the person that did this."

We began to walk again, away from Putney's. "The papers reported a monster that the family had kept caged, but said that the girl was mad herself. It's been linked to the other killings that have happened, but they've all been men."

For a moment I wanted to tell him Victor's secret, I wanted to share what I had been told with this man and for the first time I realized that I wasn't alone. My past, Mina, her dashing soldier were no longer what had to define me.

"Are you okay, Miss Ives?"

I had stopped without knowing, my feet glued to the pavement.

"Of course she's simply fine, Mr Chandler. What wouldn't she be? She has her _dog_ to protect her."

I turned around, my heart pushing through my chest. Hecate Poole stood there, dark eyes flashing, hair pinned almost to perfection. I never knew her age, her actual age, but what I saw frightened me. The goldness of the day dulled.

"Go to hell, Hecate. And stay there," Ethan said.

She reached out, touched his shoulder and he wrenched away. "Like I said, the place where your mother is would be a great place for you to take vacation. A permanent one."

Hecate laughed, a peel of bells with edges of knives. "You haven't considered my offer, Mr Chandler? May I suggest you think again. And Miss Ives, my mother may not have succeeded in persuading you, but maybe she wasn't offering the right things? Perhaps I could be more persuasive? There's room for your dog too – that's if he stays as yours."

In my head I was recounting words from books, hearing the malice in my own thoughts but feeling no guilt. She touched her head, paleness pushing through the rouged cheeks and then backed away, saying nothing.

"What did you do?"

"You really want to know?"

Ethan smiled. "Maybe not. But I think we should head back to Sir Malcolm's. If what you've done wears off soon I doubt she'll be put off for long. Let's forget about her. Let's stay in the light a little longer if we can."

We headed back, walking instead of taking a carriage. London faded into our background as we talked about Ethan's childhood, my days with Mina, Balantrae Moor and Joan.

Ebele was waiting for us when we arrived back. She took my coat as if she had done it every day and dusted it down with a firm hand. "You have a lose button," she said, her accent lilting. "I will fix it. It will not come lose again. Mr Chandler, Sir Malcolm was asking to see you. He's in his study. I'll bring you coffee shortly."

I watched as Ethan passed a brief, conspiratorial smile and disappear to see Sir Malcolm. Ebele looked up at me from checking the coat and stopped myself from taking a step back.

"Sage," she said. "You need cleansing, girl after today."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand." I did, I just wasn't sure how.

"You gave someone a headache, not that I'm judging, but you need to take away that darkness. Come with me." She started to head into the kitchen and I followed, alarmed.

"Tell me what you know." I said, the door closed behind us.

"It would take a lifetime. And that's why I can tell when someone's been cussing the old ways," she pulled out a bunch of white stems and leaves from a cupboard and lit it from the stove, blowing it out after a few seconds and letting it smolder. "Dust yourself with this, down and away."

I moved the sage about myself, as she said, and as I had done before with Joan. "Who are you?"

"I'm like you. Not as strong maybe, but more experienced." She returned to a pot and began to stir. I put the sage down into an abalone shell she had left for me. "See that cupboard there, in it are a few ingredients you might need. You can add to them if you want or ask me to get anything else you require. You're needing some herbs for Mr Chandler?"

"Yes."

"See me in the morning. We'll look at what's necessary."

"Who…"

She stood up straight, the smell of food permeating through the dimming sage. "I'm who I am, Miss. It's not important, not now. What is important is whatever's coming next. Now get yourself out of this kitchen and see Sir Malcolm yourself!"

I was smiling without thinking, seven years old again and being chased out by cook. My feet took me into the study, to Sir Malcolm and back to Ethan.

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It was late and a moonless night. In the morning a thick smog would descend over London, cascading through the winding streets and alleyways and darkening the morning.

"It's the perfect evening," Ruby said, linking Lily's arm. "Shall I try this time?"

"You can do. If I remember correctly he prefers girls with dark hair." There was a lilt of Irish in her tone, the sound of which excited Ruby. Lily only got like this with her, when they were out. 'He's in that alehouse and he'll be sat at the bar. You remember what he looks like?"

Ruby nodded, her eyes gleaming. "I'll bring him round here, down that snicket. Will you be waiting?"

"Yes. Do you want to have him first?"

"Maybe."

"Then I'll wait till you say my name. Go child, go bring us a mouse." Lily watched as Ruby slipped away, hair clip in place, bosom heaving. She had been a find, a rich girl left destitute after her father had died, not that she was unhappy about her father's death after the life he had put her through behind closed doors.

The man they were hunting was a lawyer, rich and successful with a penchant for hurting the girls he paid. He'd hurt Brona, once.

Ruby returned, laughing as the clock struck midnight. James Tytheritt's hand was on her behind, fingers firm. Lily watched them disappear into the slim alleyway, Ruby now pushed against a wall, skirts being pushed up with rough hands. There was a gasp and a moan and Lily's eyes stayed fixed, watching the act, feeling her own body respond. She could head back to Dorian after or find herself someone else. It was easy in London and she had no fears anymore.

"Lily!"

It was more than a call. Tytheritt had hold of her neck, head forced against the stone. Lily stepped in, saying nothing. He didn't notice, too engrossed in chasing his pleasure. The blade was sharp but there was recognition in his eyes as slit his throat, one last guttural noise filling the night before silence resumed.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N Thank you for the reviews! Sorry I have had chance to reply individually, it's a wonder I'm getting time to write at the moment! Please do review and let me know your thoughts as they are a great motivation to find the time!

It wasn't the shock of finding out that Brona is alive, or even that Frankenstein, to all extents and purposes, betrayed me, but the shock of fully understanding my own intentions toward Miss Ives that took me from the room. What Victor has done has only illustrated the depth of his nature; his curiosity with science and obsession with his inability to save his mother's life, even though he was a child. But when I left Sir Malcolm's study to take some air it wasn't for fear of harming the doctor, but my own guilt.

Miss Ives expected me to want to see Brona, or what she has become, maybe to renew my friendship with her. But as I told Miss Ives some months ago, even when I was with Miss Croft I never forgot about her – something that had on occasion gnawed at my conscience. And now, this morning, with the autumn sun dappling down through broken clouds I have no desire to seek Miss Croft; instead I would rather spend the hours I can making Miss Ives smile.

"There was another murder last night," she says, passing a boy selling papers. "The reporters are saying it is Jack the Ripper, but this time he wants men instead."

We are walking to the park, a favourite place of hers, taking time away from Lyle and Malcolm and Victor, who is still quiet but has regained some colour to his face that makes him look less like a corpse than of recent days. He is not forgiven, not by any of us just yet, but he has not been ostracized either: he has his uses and there is good in his intentions.

"Could it be one of Victor's monsters?" I say as a small girl runs passed us, amusing Vanessa. "We know his first creation has already killed at least one."

"He fits with the murders in the waxworks if the professor's correct and they were considering opening a show of freaks." Vanessa stoops to pick a leaf from the ground. It is as if it has been painted by a fine artist, such are its colours. Vivid reds fade into oranges and yellows, its texture like leather.

"It's worth considering."

"What is it?" She stops, looks up at me and I wonder how she can read my thoughts.

I smile, amused. "Sometimes I think you must have sneaked that pack of cards up your sleeve."

Her lips grow into the wide smile that is as rare as an orchid in the slums of London. "No, Mr Chandler. When you have pensive thoughts your eyes widen and grow darker and you glance at the ground as if it holds the answers."

"Have you made a study of me, Miss Ives?"

Her eyes flit away from mine as if she is embarrassed. "Maybe I have, Mr Chandler. You seem like a useful man to know. Can I help you with what is troubling you?"

My first reaction is to say no, or to make an amusing remark so she forgets the subject, but I know from previous experience that she is too dogged and stubborn to let it go. "I should've enquired after Miss Croft. Arranged a funeral. But instead I took Frankenstein at his word."

"But by that time we were immersed in finding Mina. There is no point in dwelling on it, Mr Chandler. The time will come to put things right." We are standing, facing each other, people passing on the paths behind her, weaving through the trees and I wonder what would happen if I kissed her here and now, in front of the governesses and ladies of London.

"How delightful!"

The voice wakens me before I dare.

"Mr Chandler and Miss Ives! It has too long."

I freeze, seeing a ghost. It had to happen before too long: London was too small a society. Dorian hasn't changed, his eyes as brightly troubling as ever but the woman beside him is quite different. Bobbed blonde hair becomes her, a high necked dress is demure and a contrast to her old style, while her eyes betray a different person, another soul.

"This is Miss Frankenstein. As I recall Miss Ives and Miss Frankenstein are already acquainted, but I think you were absent from the ball I held some time ago. It was a shame you weren't there, Mr Chandler," Mr Gray says.

"It is good to meet you, Mr Chandler. And lovely to see you again too, Miss Ives," she says offering me her hand to shake. It is as cold as ice and completely unlike the warm hands I remembered. This isn't Brona Croft. The person in front of me might have some of her memories and take her form, but those eyes betray a different beast. "Maybe we should have another ball, Dorian. The last was such fun." Her accent is that of Sir Malcolm's class or higher. The Irish lilt has gone.

"Why not? We could do so this Friday – that would give us enough time to send out invitations." Dorian looks like a small child at Christmas, full of animated enthusiasm where everything is an adventure. Anything is possible with him, as I found out. "Do say you'll come, Miss Ives? Mr Chandler?"

I glance at Vanessa. The biggest part of me want to say no, stay as far away as we can from this strange creature, strange creatures, but it could also be an opportunity to find out more about what Victor has made.

"That sounds delightful, Mr Gray," Vanessa says. "It will give Mr Chandler a chance to show off his dancing. He has become quite proficient recently."

"Did he have a good teacher?" She, Brona, Lily, says.

"I did," I say. "Miss Ives herself taught me. In exchange for me teaching her to shoot." I am letting myself be sprayed territorially.

Lily's expression softens. "That sounds fun." There is a slight lilt there, something that is more familiar.

"It was," I say. I take a step back, hoping the encounter will end.

"We should go," Dorian mirrors by action. "We have an appointment with a seamstress on Bond Street. We hope to see you on Friday."

We exchange goodbyes and continue our walk, Lily and Dorian's laughter and plum tones carrying on the breeze. Vanessa and I swap a look, saying nothing. The backs of our hands brush against each other as we continue to walk, sharing our thoughts without speaking.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Ruby left the house in a temper, determined to prove that she wasn't a young child whose only purpose was to be played with like a toy. That was how she felt right now, like someone whose sole purpose was to be an amusement, a freak.

She wandered through the streets, debating going into a bar and seeing who she could find, wondering if she would recognize this Mr Chandler or Miss Ives that Dorian and Lily had talked about. Or even better, Victor Frankenstein who was meant to be Lily's cousin, although Lily had laughed as if it was the best joke ever when Ruby had asked about their family.

She hated being made a fool of.

"The likes of you shouldn't be in this part of town at this time. Shall I walk with you to your house?"

Ruby looked at the strange woman in front of her. Long, tightly curled brown hair hung beautifully around a pretty face. Her clothing was immaculately made and expensive and Ruby was immediately drawn to her. "I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself. You'd be surprised at my abilities."

"And you'd be surprised at mine. Appearance can be deceptive. I'm Helena Poole, by the way."

Ruby took the hand offered to her and gave her name, not thinking to change it. She began to walk beside the woman, back onto the streets that were lit by the gas lamps, where the crowds still bustled and she found herself talking about Dorian and Lily and the ball.

"This Mr Gray of yours? Is he acquainted with a Miss Vanessa Ives?"

"I do believe so. He spoke of her often enough today although I di not know why. He seems quite attentive towards her. I was surprised to see that Lily wasn't in the slightest bit bothered and she seemed to like the woman too. What I don't understand is why one minute Dorian appears to favour me and the next Lily." Ruby remembered the previous night. Dorian had kissed her and she had felt her body respond in ways that hadn't happened with any other man. But then today his attention had been elsewhere: this ball, Lily, Miss Ives and Mr Chandler. Helena Poole listened intently; walking next to her until she arrived at the place she now called home, the place that had been sanctuary after Lily had freed her from her uncle.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"A ball? How very exciting. It has been too long since I attended such an event. Except the unfortunate event where Evelyn Poole showed us her talents that were very much surpassed by Miss Ives, but maybe we should not speak of such things," Lyle said, one hand moving up to check his hair.

"I take no offence, Professor," Vanessa said, taking the coat that Ebele passed to her. "Let us speak not of things that have passed this evening and instead enjoy the opportunity to relax."

"Do you ever relax, Miss Ives, when in town?"

Lyle watched Mr Chandler with amusement, observing the flicker of light in his eyes that hadn't been there upon his return to England. "I do hope that Sir Malcolm and I won't be intruding on your evening," he said. "It appears that you and Miss Ives have plenty to discuss, Mr Chandler." He couldn't resist. Besides, he knew he'd get away with it, given that Sir Malcolm was not yet present.

Mr Chandler gave him his full attention. "I think Miss Ives and I can tolerate your company for an evening, Professor Lyle. As long as you manage to keep the conversation away from my weapon."

Lyle chuckled, finding himself flustering. "Weapons, there shall be no such talk of weapons at the dinner table tonight, not in the least your weapon, Mr Chandler. Oh I say, here is Sir Malcolm. Just at the right time…"

"I heard talk of weapons – is everything fine? Vanessa, have you seen something?"

Lyle saw Mr Chandler doing his best to not laugh out loud and Sir Malcolm look bemused. "No, of course, everything is absolutely fine. We were just discussing Mr Chandler's…"

"Miss Ives, could I borrow you in the kitchen for a moment?" Ebele created a diversion much to Lyle's relief and the conversation turned to food and the restaurant.

"It was Vanessa's suggestion," Sir Malcolm said. "Though where she heard of it, I'm unsure."

"It's meant to be quite the place. My wife's bridge partner - not that she actually plays much bridge, I think more gin is sampled that anything – mentioned it. The chef is meant to quite accomplished." Lyle checked his hair again in the mirror.

"Let's hope it's not to fine for my taste," Mr Chandler said.

"I'd say you have very fine taste. Wouldn't you Miss Ives?" Lyle couldn't resist.

Miss Ives placed something in her pocket and smiled secretly. "Are we debating Mr Chandler's preference for something?"

It was then that Lyle's thoughts were confirmed as he caught the glance shared between them and he wondered what would become of the night.


	15. Chapter 15

Welcome to the Night Part 10

The ball wasn't held in Dorian's house. Instead he'd commandeered a new building that was to be used in the future as a factory, only the machines hadn't been moved in yet and he'd come to an agreement with the owner that he could use it for an evening of entertainment and dancing. The rooms were as you'd have expected: lavishly decorated with tapestries hanging from beams and overly large statues adorned with flowers. It was almost Grecian in its décor and I wondered how Mr Gray had found the time to arrange such grandeur. The expense of it was less of a mystery.

Lily Frankenstein, formerly Brona Croft, hung from Dorian's arm, her wide smile not entirely genuine. Ethan's stance became defensive as they drew near, his demeanor unrelaxed, cautious.

"Mr Chandler and Miss Ives. It is good of you to come. Have you seen the room? Isn't it exquisitely different?" Dorian said, his usual enthusiasm pouring out.

"It is very unusual, Mr Gray," I responded. "I'm not quite sure how you managed to arrange this at such short notice."

"You know me, Miss Ives. If you tell me something is impossible, I will prove otherwise." His eyes dance as they often do, a trait I once found mesmerizing but now it appears a trifle insincere.

"I was wondering, Mr Gray, what became of Miss Angelique? I seem to recall that the last ball of yours I attended was in her honour." As I say the name is see him recoil ever so slightly.

"I am unsure, Miss Ives. I think Miss Angelique grew tired of my company and found entertainment elsewhere. Do excuse me, I really must say hello to Sir Thomas." He moved away, Lily casting a look back at Ethan and smiling, as if he presented a distant memory that she wasn't sure of.

"She knew," Ethan said as we took champagne from. His expression is somber and he drinks quickly. I know he would prefer whisky to champagne but whatever he has recalled has made him not care as long as it dulls the pain. "The night we went to the theatre, she saw me talking to you and Mr Gray and she knew then that as much as I… She knew I thought of you and she was jealous."

"Life isn't always black or white, Mr Chandler. We are far more complex than that. But I do wonder what has become of Miss Angelique."

We dance. He remembered his steps and held his pose well and gradually Ethan forgot about Brona Croft and found himself in the moment, a did I. There was a merriness to the ball, an excitement and even Dorian himself faded into the background of the event. As we danced around the crowded floor the people blur. I don't see Lyle or Sir Malcolm, Dorian or Lily. I only heard the music and Ethan's words and laughter. No one else existed at that moment and I realized then that I was happy.

After the music had stopped I saw Lily talking with the young girl she had befriended and a more familiar face next to hers. My eyes fixed on her brown ones, Mr Chandler's hand on the small of my back as he escorted me outside.

"Hecate Poole," I said quietly.

"I noticed her earlier," he replied. "And by the looks of things she's making one hell of an unholy alliance with our host."

We don't stop, instead walking through town back to Sir Malcolm's. The night was dark with few stars breaking through the dark London cloud and no one was paying us much attention. Sir Malcolm had left earlier with Lyle and another gentleman with whom they had become embroiled in conversation concerning a relic. Doctor Frankenstein had maintained his distance, staying with Ebele instead in Sembene's kitchen.

Ethan stopped; I paused, turning to see what the matter was. He smiled at me, a coy grin, hands in pockets. "I've enjoyed your company tonight, Miss Ives."

I found myself smiling back, a warmth growing inside of me. "And I yours, Mr Chandler. Your dancing was particularly proficient."

"All down to the teacher." He stepped towards me and took hold of my waist. A man walked passed me, oblivious. A dog barked. "You are more than I deserve."

We had kissed before, on the moors the night of the storm. Then it was desperate, as if we needed each other's touch simply to carry on existing. This time it was softer, full of promises.

When he stepped back a shadow had been cast across his face. His hands still held me, clutching. "I will tell them tonight about Sembene. About what I am."

We continued to walk home, hands touching such was our closeness. I didn't attempt to persuade him to not confess: I understood that to allow himself to feel any sort of happiness he had to let Sir Malcolm know the truth.

When we returned there was a discussion being had in the drawing room, several books and scrolls were laid out on the table, being poured over by Lyle and Sir Malcolm. The doctor was sitting on a chair, perusing a text and speaking animatedly. They looked up as we entered, Sir Malcolm smiling broadly at us. "You had a good evening? You seemed to both be enjoying the dancing when I left."

"It was delightful. The music was excellent. We did see Hecate Poole there though which was concerning." I said, slipping off my gloves.

"She may not be of much concern at present. You remember the creature that took Mina?" I nodded at Sir Malcolm. "We suspected that there was more than one and it appears we are correct. Are you quite well Mr Chandler or has Miss Ives' dancing worn you out?"

I looked at Ethan, his expression was pained and he looked impatient. "I have something I need to tell you and after you hear it you may not want me in this house again."

It was then I endured a pain I was not familiar with, a wrenching in my chest giving me a dull continuous ache.

"I can't see that," Sir Malcolm stood, looking concerned. "You have done a great deal for both myself and Miss Ives."

"There is something I have kept hidden from you." And then he told them about the moon and his transformation, about his brother and Laura and then about Sembene. I watched their faces: Sir Malcolm's intrigue and then pain; Professor Lyle's horror and awe and Victor's curiosity, for now nothing could surprise him.

"Sembene knew what you were?" Sir Malcolm said.

"Yes. I ordered him to kill me but he refused. Then I changed and took his life. I have struggled to live with myself since."

"It's a genetic mutation. But you say you have started to control the change and your compulsion when you do change?" Victor said, filling the silence.

"Yes. I have a medicine made for me. Ebele also knows how to make it, as does Vanessa."

"You knew?" Sir Malcolm looked at me. I knew this was a betrayal.

"Yes. I saw Ethan as the wolf in Mrs Poole's house. It was Ethan who killed her. I understood what had happened to Sembene later." I said. I did not care that Sir Malcolm thought me to have betrayed him by not telling him Ethan's secret.

"But he did not attempt to hurt you?" Lyle said.

"No, I backed away from her. I knew who she was, unlike anyone else when I changed at that point."

"Lupus Dei," Lyle said, almost muttering. "We read about the Wolf of God. Do you recall Sir Malcolm?"

There was no response. Ethan and Sir Malcolm were locked in an unreadable look. Eventually Ethan's eyes diverted. "I should go."

"No," Sir Malcolm said, almost ordering. "Sembene told me months before that you were different. He knew."

"I need some air. I will be back." He put his hat on and left the room, the door slamming behind him.

"Excuse me," I said and followed him.

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I head for the church, St Michael's and All Angels, knowing that its doors will be open even at this early hour. I hear footsteps but see no sign of the priest. although another confession is not what I need. Instead I seek solace, space to think and consider that I haven't been banished from Sir Malcolm's house. I have heard Lyle mention the Hound of God before and have thought about what this might mean but right now I am grieving and dealing with my guilt. Sembene was a good man: yet he did know what his fate would be by not pulling the trigger. He had decided that my life was worth more than his.

I kneel in front of the alter and pray, words learnt in childhood recited along with words that only a loving god would understand. I curse and swear and feel tears drop as I ask a god I'm not sure is benevolent to protect Sembene in heaven and to return humanity to Brona's soul. I pray for Victor and Malcolm and Ebele and those I've left behind in America. And then I ask for Vanessa to be safe, and I tell whatever fucking God is listening that they can have my soul as long as she is protected.

"Be careful who you make a pact with."

I have been aware of someone else's presence, of someone sitting behind me, No one to fear, friend rather than foe. "Van."

"I came to see if you were okay." I get up off my knees and go to her.

"I'm fine."

She smiles, that same smile she gave me on the day we first met. "Are you coming home?"

"Yes, But not yet. I need - quiet, I guess." I pause, look up at the figure of Jesus dangling from the cross. "I'm surprised Sir Malcolm will let me through the door."

She's silent.

"What I did was unforgivable."

"No. You didn't do it, Ethan. Sir Malcolm, Lyle, Victor - they understand that. They want to learn more about it. So do I."

I sit down beside her on the pew. She's cold, leaving the house without wrapping up. "You shouldn't have walked through London by yourself."

"I'd've shouted for you if anything had happened," she says, moving closer to me. I put an arm around her and pull her close, my thoughts anything but holy.

"How long have you been here?"

"Almost as long as you. I heard you praying for me." Her face is inches from mine. The church candles cast a soft glow, shadows flickering across her face. For the second time tonight I kiss her, feeling the bite of her response. It is easy to lose myself in her, regardless of where we are.

Vanessa pulls away first. "Let's go home. It's nearly morning."

I stand and follow her lead out of the church, my hand clasped hers. "Never done that in a church before. Wonder what Jesus made of it?"

"I suspect it's nothing he's not seen before."

As we leave the building they're on us, nightwalkers, pulling us down to the ground, into the grass amongst the graves. I hear Vanessa, Latin pouring off her tongue as I fight back, three of them coming at me, two more attacking her.

I hear her call my name. After that there is silence.


	16. Chapter 16

A/N Thank you to those who have reviewed. If you haven't please consider doing so - it does prompt me to post the next chapter!

Chapter 16

I open my eyes to find Vanessa standing over me, a watery dawn behind her. Her hair is mussed and there are scratches down one side of her face. I stand too quickly and lose my balance; she tries to steady me and I see that her eyes are ablaze with determination and stubbornness. "What happened? I've clearly missed your finest hour."

She doesn't smile. "Hecate Poole and Miss Frankenstein's friend. I don't know her name."

"How did you see them off?"

She dusts down her skirts and begins walking. "A few words I picked up from Joan's book. It took longer than I liked to say them as I found myself occupied with Miss Poole's friends. They stunned you – I think one aim was to take you with them."

"Nightcomers?"

She nods. "Indeed. I need to return home and see Ebele. She's spoken of a tonic that will help me regain my strength a little quicker."

We walk the rest of the way in silence, both thinking. I suspect Vanessa is planning her next phase of battle while I am planning how to keep her the hell safe.

"The girl was an acquaintance of Mr Gray's, I think?" I say as we enter the house.

"Yes, I believe so. I heard she was staying with them." Vanessa says, unbuttoning her coat and looking around the room as if a nightcomer is about to materialize from the wall.

"Miss Ives." Neither of us have noticed Ebele enter. Her hair is awry and her eyes pools of black ink. There is something wild about her, untamed, something I recognize from Ela. "She is calling on them. The demons. The witch you have seen tonight – she knows not what she is doing."

Vanessa is expressionless, her shoulders relaxed but eyes alert. I leave my coat on as I expect I'll be leaving the house soon to head to where I should've gone when I first learnt of Brona's fate. "Can you stop her?"

Ebele's eyes flash wildly and a different voice answers, one I have never heard but shakes Vanessa to the bone. "I see you've found some friends, my little scorpion? He was right, you know. You should never have used the book. But I suppose it is well you found your dark side before anyone else did."

Vanessa steps back, fear itself.

"You needn't worry, girl. I'm not the one you fear. Just helping out here." Ebele's eyes have turned white and it's now that I smell the herbs from the kitchen, a familiar scent that I remember from Ela.

"What should I do?" I hear Vanessa say. "This is not within my power."

Ebele laughs, and now it is her. "Find the witch. Leave the rest to us, my girl." Her face softens. "Ba'cho. Take the others and stop the blood being shed. The girl you told me about, the one who died."

"Ela?"

"Yes, Ba'cho. This world is not that large." The words then become unfamiliar, a chant or incantation. I look at Vanessa to ask if she understands.

"They're combining their strength to send back demons that Hecate Poole has invoked, ones that will overpower me and take my soul. I must do as she says and find her." She looks tired and I wish I could pick her up and take her to a safe place, back to the moors, where she can be free from this because we both know it will never end.

"I should come with you."

"No, Ethan. You should find Miss Frankenstein and stop what she has planned. If Ela has told you…"

"How would she know?"

Vanessa's eyes flash. "How do they know any of this?"

It's only now I realize Sir Malcolm is the room too, Victor behind him. "There have been two more murders," Victor says, his voice stronger than I have heard it since returning from America. "Your inspector friend passed by and asked if we had heard anything given the close proximity to them. He has been told a woman with short fair hair was witnessed close to the scene and he found the idea of the murderer being a woman rather amusing."

"Brona." I say.

Victor shakes his head. "Lily. It is a different person; a creature that has taken over her body and some of her memories."

"We need to stop her," Sir Malcolm says.

"But how? From what Frankenstein says she is immortal."

"As are you," Victor announces without emotion. "Are you able to call on the beast within you at will, or is it still uncontrollable?"

I feel fear tremor through me. He is right, what he is hinting at is correct. Ela taught me the old ways, the ways of the skinwalkers. The herbs she mixed allowed my to take control of the wolf within when the moon was full so it no longer overcame my sense of self. They also allowed me to begin to call on it at other times of the month, never with the same power but enough to do what they are asking. "I can control it to some extent," I say. "But what you are asking me to do…"

"Is nothing you have not done before," Sir Malcolm says.

"I will follow you to Mr Gray's," I say, waiting for them to leave.

When the door has closed I am left alone with Vanessa. She's pale, fragility emanating from her but her eyes hold strength I haven't known in any other. I close the gap between us and pull her into me, kissing her head as I have done so before. Her warmth gives me hope. "You should wait for me. Or let me leave Brona to the others and I'll go with you."

"Find me when you've done," she says. 'The longer you leave her the more damage she will do. I will be fine." She smiles and I wish neither of us had to go anywhere.

"Try to stay out of trouble," I say, tipping my hat. I see her smile then I leave, stepping not into the night but the soft early morning light of the day.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lily watched the scene from a distance, sure that no one was aware of her presence. Daylight trickled down, casting an unpleasant spotlight on the scene she had created but she felt neither guilt nor grief. Nor satisfaction.

The ball had been a disaster. Ethan Chandler had danced all night with Vanessa, a sight she found incredibly sad although she couldn't be quite sure why. Brona, the girl she had been, had been fond of him, but there had never been any duration in the match, that was for sure. Had consumption not ravaged her lungs they both would have tired of the sex and the passion, and she wouldn't have been the same lost cause. That wasn't his fault. Lily had watched him dance, been envious of the bond that was becoming, but her anger was saved for the girl dancing with Dorian, just as she had once been that girl on which jealous eyes were focused.

It wasn't that she needed Dorian to just be hers. She wasn't bothered if Dorian had other women, just as he understood that she needed other men, especially ones she could dominate and over power in more ways than one. It was that Ruby was stepping into areas that were not hers to tread. Ruby who should've minded her place and been grateful for what Lily had rescued her from, the risks that Lily had taken.

But no. Ruby had to take what she could of Lily's life and there wasn't room in Dorian's house for two women. The absence of Angelique had proved that.

The corpses of the two men were splayed bloody and broken on the pavement, their necks snapped and a knife to the stomach. They hadn't approached Lily, they hadn't done anything wrong except walk along the streets of town in the wee small hours of the morning, which suggested they weren't all that pure and innocent.

Lily. Victor had chosen well with the name. It wasn't one she would've picked; maybe something a little more biblical would've been suitable, Delilah for instance. Or Jezabel. She certainly wasn't the innocent thing he'd hoped for. A wash of guilt swam over her as she thought of Victor. Yes, he had toyed with the darker side, creating her and other from the corpses of those he could find, but his intentions were not malicious or unkind. She thought of John Clare, the power she had held over him, the thrill she had found in taunting him. The power she held over Dorian was diminishing. As much as he had found her mysterious he was beginning to become bored; a problem when you had sold your soul for eternal life.

The police were struggling with the few onlookers who were about early enough to view the tableaux she had created. There were murmurs about the ripper being back, and someone nearby mentioned a woman ripper, one who hated men. She kept silent, still, watching the scene until the first onlookers began to disappear. She blended in easily, a pretty, upper class lady who for some reason was out without a chaperone. As she moved she noticed a man she recognized, a brute of man, and she wondered if she could end his pathetic life too. Lily looked at her hands and realized they were shaking, with fear or excitement she wasn't sure. She couldn't tell any more.

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There is a side of London that for the most remains undiscovered, narrow streets and dark alleyways, steps down to a world below the day-to-day life that few have seen or would wish to see. It is here the demimonde seeps into the reality that most exist within and at this present moment it is where Hecate Poole had nested, just as a rat would.

I knew where to find her without question, the information delivered into my mind through a door I can never lock. Who has been the messenger I do not know, whether Joan has slipped into my mind or someone darker I'm unsure and it does not matter. What matters is the outcome of this meeting I am about to convene.

Hecate Poole's living quarters are in the bowels of the town, through the tunnels that labyrinth deeper and deeper away from the light of day. Here it is always dark, a pervasive darkness, one that seeps into you skin and taints your blood. She will be aware of my presence. I am only surprised that I have not been met on my way. A rat scuttles, something whispers and I find myself murmuring words I have never heard before, words being given to me.

 _Now, my little scorpion. Time to show me what that book taught you._

Hecate's dwelling is decked with the skulls of things long since gone and as old as time. There are no puppets, no sign that she had adopted her mother's favourite craft. Candles light the walls, showing her as she sits at a table, cards spread in front of her. As she looks at me I notice her eyes are too dark wells, their depths unknown.

"Bitch," she says, her voice high pitched and pained. "Can't fight me on your own. Whore. But you came anyway."

And I know now that I was right. I have been drawn here. But I knew I would be all along.


	17. Chapter 17

Morning has certainly erupted over London by the time we reach Dorian's house, yet his windows show no sign of letting in the sunlight. Curtains are drawn or shutters are closed and it appears that, like the sunlight, we won't be granted access. Victor is tense and on edge, his eyes are darting around as if ghosts are about to emerge from the walls and I know he is looking for Lily Frankenstein, or the other demons he has created.

"Will you calm the fuck down," I say to him in muffled tones. "You're making us look like regular criminals."

"As opposed to the irregular ones that we are?" he says. "The last time I saw Lily she discussed killing me as if I was a mouse in a cat's basket. The bullets I used had no effect whatsoever and since then she's gone on to kill several unsuspecting and innocent men. I think I am allowed to be somewhat apprehensive."

There's another loud knocking from Sir Malcolm, followed by a cuss. "There's no way we can break in," he says. "We should try the back, see if there's any sign of life."

I lead the walk around to the rear of the building, moving through shadows cast by the tall walls of Dorian Gray's house. A couple of rats dash away, disturbed and its now I notice a moving shadow, not one created by the walls or other static objects. My gun twitches in my hand and I stop, holding up by other arm to pause the men behind me.

A figure steps out with a face uglier than sin, scarred across his temple with long hair like rats tails hanging from his head. "I'm not armed and mean you no harm," he says, holding out his hands to prove his point.

"Then why are you hiding away?" I don't drop my pistol, pointing it at him yet he is unperturbed by it.

"He's looking for Lily," Victor steps forward, noticeably calmer. "This is John Clare. If he's still going by that name."

"Creator. I thought I might find you here." He looks as if he has been sleeping on the streets for several days, if not weeks and the smell coming from him is putrid. "You couldn't leave her alone, could you? The pain you have caused…"

"And let's stop there," I move closer to him, creating a mountain between him and Victor. "You're looking for Miss Frankenstein, I assume?"

"Yes. Who else? I seek the soul mate he supposedly created for me. The woman I was meant to be tied to for eternity, and because of him, because of the evil that runs through his hands, she has turned to a murderous life…"

"And you have not? Who was it who strangled Dr Van Helsing? And countless more I assume? Did the deaths of the Putneys not belong to your hands? A snapped neck is certainly one of your preferred methods," Victor has edged closer, rage boiling under his skin and his words spat out like razor blades.

"I think we have other things to be concerned with," I say, keeping in between the two. "Such as this path of destruction Miss Frankenstein has chosen, not to mention the small matter of Miss Ives and where she is right now."

"Miss Ives?" John Clare says. "With the dark hair and eyes?"

I frown. "Yes. How would you know her?"

"She would come by, serving food to unfortunates. She was kind to me, kinder than anyone else and she knew of poetry. When I last saw her she was bereft, lost. I wished to help her, but I could barely help myself. Is she in danger of some kind?"

I feel guilt, knowing that I was the cause of Miss Ives' melancholy mood, but now is not the time to dwell on self-pity. "Yes. We need to stop Miss Frankenstein from her current plight and then we can assist Miss Ives."

Eyes cast behind me, the focus elsewhere. I turn to see, knowing who it is already.

"You were always too concerned about Miss Ives, Ethan. Your precious Miss Ives." The accent is Brona Croft, Irish lilt, but the bitterness is not hers.

"Miss Frankenstein," I say. "A pleasure to see you again. I'd shake your hand but I think it'd be a little cold for my taste." Victor has paled, Sir Malcolm and Lyle are standing aside. 'Would you like to tell us what you've been up to?"

"Just giving a few men their just desserts," she says, glancing up at the house. I follow her eyes and see a girl standing at the window, bare breasted, a man behind her who I recognize as Dorian Gray.

Lily takes a step back, a look of pain, hatred, crossing her pale face. All accusation and thoughts of Vanessa have left her and I see she has been cursed like many of us: with rejection.

The figures leave the window and her eyes turn to Victor, flashing hatred through them, the demon that Victor has dragged up from depths of hades visible to all present. She lunges and I aim my gun; this is not Brona, other than she has taken Brona's body and her memories, the darker ones, the ones from which a demon would feed.

Before I can pull the trigger, John Clare has grabbed her pulling her towards him, his expression severe. "Please," he says. "Your bullet would not kill her anyway. Nor anything else within you. I will take her away, show her beauty and she will change." Her head turns to look up at him, eyes gazing. The wolf within me stirs and I know what would kill her; I understand then that I can call on the beast, use its strength but I'm not sure this is the path I want to take.

"Ethan?" Sir Malcolm says.

I shake my head. "Where will you go?"

"The boat for Norway leaves at midday. I have planned to take it for sometime and seek the aurora borealis, the Northern Lights. We have all committed heinous crimes, haven't we, creator? Let her have a chance to find beauty within her own soul," John Clare looks from me to Victor and back. Lily Frankenstein's eyes flit to the window where nothing is, where no one is.

"Mr Gray does this," I say to her. "He becomes bored easily. People are no one more valuable than a spoilt child's toy."

She looks at her hands and then to me and to Victor. "What will you do if I don't go with Mr Clare?" she says.

"Kill you," I tell her.

"How?" she laughs as she says it. "I cannot be killed."

"I'll tear out your windpipe and then your heart. Then I'll feed both to the wolves." I see Victor wince from the corner of my eye.

"Maybe that's what I want, to end this sham of a life. Add me to your list of sins, Mr Chandler. It won't make your past any blacker, we both know that."

"I kill you, I stop you taking any more lives. Or you leave with Mr Clare here and take a nice boat ride to where there aren't many people about and have a little think about what you're going to do with your time on earth." I say. Laughter comes from inside the house, filtering through an open window. Music follows.

"I'll leave. Let Dorian mourn for me. Tell him I died. But It doesn't mean I won't come back," she says, linking Mr Clare. "You all get what you want for a little while. And I can become a legend like Jack the Ripper."

"I'll see she gets on the boat," Mr Clare says. "I promise you, Victor. Give my regards to Miss Ives." He starts to steer her away and I hear the wolf growl within me, knowing that I have made a mistake in letting her go. Although I have no doubt that she will embark the ship, I have every confidence that she will continue to leave a trail of destruction behind her in Norway, even if it is only the wild wolves that will seek her out.

We leave them heading towards the docks, a clock somewhere striking eight and I feel a urge to run to where Vanessa will be.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Hecate Poole struggled as her voice became weaker, dry from reciting the curses and enchantments she had learned from her mother. A fire glowed in the corner, the only thing casting light, spitting sparks angrily.

I had said nothing, the voices that ran from my lips were not mine. I had heard the coarse accent of the cut-wife, the sing song lilt of Ebele and a voice I could not place. They spoke through me, and as they did I felt any weakness slip away and a strength I had never possessed previously pulsate through every vein.

After what felt like hours a silence fell like thick snow, muffling even the hissing of the wood that had continued to burn.

"Vanessa, sister." Hecate's eyes had returned to normal, her face pale and wan. "Help me."

For a moment, a second or possibly two, I felt my shoulders relax and the breath that had come so quickly settle.

"You and I could wield so much power. Think of all that could be if you join with us…"

And then my own words left my lips, my old friend giving my lips the bullets to fire. I saw Hecate's expression turn to fear, the mirror of her mother's all those months before and as the final words left my tongue the fire flickered and died, leaving us in the dark.

Stillness. Silence. No sign of movement apart from my own. Every candle had been extinguished long before and now the fire was stone cold, as if the very devil himself had taken leave and dragged his flames back to hell. Which indeed he had.

I rested against the wall, cold seeping through my skirts and into my skin. How long it was, I do not know, before the voices came again, speaking in tandem.

"Your path is clear for now. But when Lucifer fell he did not fall alone." The cut-wife's words, said again. And then the candles burst into flame, lighting up the cavern. Hecate Poole's body was splayed across the floor, aged and dried, the life having been sucked out by the power of the three witches that had taken my tongue as their conduit.

Footsteps fell in the tunnel outside, the rhythms recognizable.

"Vanessa?"

Ethan entered carrying a candle, bringing a brighter light.

"We heard voices – did Ebele follow you hear?" He looked confused, eyes glancing around the room, focusing eventually on Hecate Poole. "Is that?"

By now she was a shadow of what she was, more like the nightwalkers were had met too many times. "Yes. That was Hecate." Weakness and exhaustion pounced upon me like a tiger hiding in the undergrowth. He came to my side, putting an arm around me regardless of the fact that Sir Malcolm was watching intently.

"Vanessa, are you okay? Are you harmed?" Sir Malcolm said.

I shook my head. "I had help. But let me tell you about it later. I will save my strength for walking out of here."

We walked, the quietness that enveloped us was one of calm, a calm I had not felt for some time. A calm that was the answer to my prayers.


	18. Final Chapter

A/N Apologies for the strange language when this chapter was first uploaded. God bless technology!

The day is a glorious one, cool and frosty with a lacey mist that hints of winter and warm fires, Christmas stockings being made in preparation for the season and warm mugs of tea if you're English; coffee if not.

We have taken a walk through the park; a watery sun distant in the sky. The trees are bare of leaves and there is a crunch underfoot. Events of the early morning have been dissected and analyzed, before a breakfast was devoured even though no one had realized they were hungry. Vanessa looks tired, but claims she is not, that the riddance of Hecate Poole has rejuvenated her but I'd still prefer it if she rested.

We walk in silence, both smiling and I keep catching her glancing at me although I pretend not to notice.

"You appear amused, Mr Chandler," Vanessa says, pausing by thick trunked oak. "Care to tell?"

I know I am smiling broadly, in a manner that would be akin to the village idiot but I don't wish to explain why to her right now. "Not in the slightest, Miss Ives."

"Shall I guess then?"

"You can, but I sharn't tell you if you are right or wrong," I say. "Let's just say for the first time in a while I feel almost free. I intend to enjoy it while it lasts."

We continue to walk, telling stories, she about London, me about the reservations and the Indians, the silly legends I had tired of as a child but that fascinated Vanessa. And so I told them all the more.

When we reach Sir Malcolm's house we find it empty, only Ebele milling about the place as if she has always been there. "He's gone to the museum with the professor and the doctor," she says when asked. "A new collection of artifacts from Budapest has been delivered and there was something of intrigue within it. I shall be going to the market soon, if there is anything you wish?"

Vanessa gives a list, mainly sweet ingredients and Ebele smiles knowingly, as if she knows all this already.

And then we are left alone for what feels the like the first time in forever and the atmosphere between us changes. We are back in the cut wife's cottage during the thunderstorm, when Vanessa taught me to dance and I taught her to shoot and neither of us had fully realized the power that was within us.

I take her coat, saying nothing, and hang it up, the kitchen door shouting Ebele's exit. "How can I entertain you, Miss Ives?"

She smiles, watching me acutely. "Do you remember how to dance, Mr Chandler?"

"I could probably do with being reminded." I follow her into the ballroom, rarely used. The curtains are drawn and the room is cool. Vanessa starts the music, a soft, melodic tune and waits for me in the centre of the floor.

I feel nervous, clumsy and I worry that my feet won't move like they should. Vanessa looks slight and slim, her dark hair has dropped from the style it has been in and is loose about her shoulders, cascading, messy curls dripping down her back.

She is smiling as I take hold of her waist and then her hand and my feet do remember what to do. She is talking and I am laughing but I am unsure what it is about.

I don't know how but our frames have dropped and we are closer than what would be permitted at a ball. The room is no longer cold; the heat from her is keeping me warm. Vanessa looks up at me, eyes dark, lips red. "Are we still dangerous?"

The air is thick with anticipation. My hands are on her waist, her tiny waist; hers on my shoulders. She is pressed against me, the music still playing, the curtains still closed. Our feet shuffle, giving us an excuse to be this close when we aren't married, or nearly an excuse. "No. Not to each other.' I lift a hand to move her hair from her face, then lift her chin to look up at me.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

We had kissed before, at the Cut-Wife's cottage, during a storm. But today there was no storm. Outside was the cool of early winter and the light white frost had made everything pure again. I had kissed men before, enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh and never considered them a sin, only that they had taken me sometimes too close to that dark side that could consume me, allowing my own guilt, Catholic guilt, to cast a shadow over the godliness I needed in me.

But here, in the ballroom so very rarely used, with the American who I knew would have died for me or pulled me back from the darkest depths I am safe. We walk in the shadows because of who we are, neither the light nor the dark can be a place for us and instead we must explore these shades of grey where God is not the one to whom we pray for forgiveness: it is ourselves.

When he kissed me he held me so my weakened legs did not have to take my weight. There was no thunderstorm, only what passed between us as the kiss continued and then it changed. Its ferocity quieted and I found us sitting on the floor, light, quick kisses, his hands holding my face, my waist and in my hair.

And then it ended and we looked at each other, questions being asked, eyes filled with desire, with something else I had never seen before.

"Vanessa," he said, his finger running across my lips. "I'm sorry I left you. I won't…"

"Shhhh," I place a finger on his. "No promises."

"Why not?" His words were soft in tone but the intent was sharp. "I would do anything for you. You know that and you know why."

I watched him before I responded. "I do," I said. "I have no doubts. Not like that night." I moved, straddling his lap and his lips found mine once more and I let myself drown in the safest of seas.

By the time we broke away from each other his shirt was undone, my fingers having sought the flesh beneath, finding warmth there that could sustain me forever. His hands had been a little more cautious, his lips having found my neck and as I would discover later, marked me as his.

"We should go elsewhere."

I moved my fingertips across his chest, hearing a sharp intake of breath.

"Vanessa. Sir Malcolm, Lyle… Ebele…They could come home at any moment. And I can't be this restrained for much longer," he said, doing up his buttons.

Voices travelled into the room, but neither of us moved, static in the room. "They're home." I managed to stand, Ethan mirroring me before pulling me into him and kissing me again. Only the increasing volume of the voices stopped us from becoming encompassed in the embrace. "What do we do?" I said.

He smiled, his hand in my hair. "We stay here and I court you or I take you away and let you court me." He was still kissing me as the door opened, an embarrassed cough announcing Victor's presence.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," he said, looking anywhere but at us. "Sir Malcolm wishes to know if you would like to dine with us tonight at Fotheringham's." He named a restaurant I had always liked.

I looked up at Ethan who was still smiling , his hand on the small of my back. "Tell Sir Malcolm thank you, but I'm taking Miss Ives out tonight."

"Very good," Victor said, backing away as quickly as he could. "I'll, I'll leave you in piece."

We laughed as he exited, our laughter quieting as we looked at each other. This was what it felt like to create our own light. To create our own light together and then dance in it, as if the night would never be dark again, not with both of us in in.


End file.
